James S Potter and the Maleficent Malady
by SGTwhiskeyjack
Summary: BOOK 3/7: James Sirius Potter survived two harrowing years at Hogwarts thanks in no small part to the strength of the friendships formed along his journey. When new faces and old tales begin to stress these bonds, can James stop them from cracking? Does he even want to? If whatever is haunting Hogwarts is as scary as what lurks without, he's going to need all the help he can get.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Welcome back! I'm really excited to bring you the third installment in my James S Potter series: The Maleficent Malady! We'll pick right up from where we left off, at the start of James' third year. Our heroes have just endured another harrowing year inside the castle walls fraught with danger, a year they conquered only through the fierce loyalty and power of their friendship. But what happens when cracks begin to form in that perfect, mirrored facade? What will happen when the wedge is driven deep? Could James still survive the peril they face if he had to face it alone? Could any of them?_

 _Forge onwards with me, dear readers, to find the answers to questions such as these, as well as discover things such as: which house Lily Potter will be in; the latest tragedy-slash-mystery that has befallen the beseiged Rain, the mystery behind the crippling plague sweeping Magical Britain, and just what secret the Teachers of Hogwarts are hiding..._

* * *

They were following him, again. He'd become suspicious three alleys and one Apparition ago, when the same face appeared at every stop on his deliberately circular route. An upturned collar, scarf and long, thick robe despite the sweltering August heat could mean only one thing: a Steelheart.

The irony tugged at the corner of Harry Potter's lips, but he did not allow himself the luxury of a smile, not when they were this close – and they knew it.

The narrow, shadowed alleyway he now stalked offered blissful reprieve from the beating sun. As a second pair of footsteps arrived in the confined space, a sudden cool draft gusted up towards him, sticking Harry's t-shirt to his body; cold and clammy with sweat.

Two homeless Muggle children took one look at the figures entering their hideaway and bolted, leaving behind their pile of meagre possessions scattered in the rot and muck of this abandoned walkway. The scent of mould hung heavy and sweet.

Rickety balconies formed a patchy ceiling, hanging dilapidated beneath first floor windows. They leaned out drunkenly towards each other. Harry used the shadow cast by one such to sneak his hand to wand; the barest of shifts in posture.

A scuffed footfall alerted him to sudden movement from behind, and he spun in the space of a heartbeat, wand levelled, Hexes forming on his lips-

To face an empty walkway. Trash stirred feebly on another cold, mocking breeze. The scent of decay and death and rotting things was lessened, now.

With a snarl, Harry spun in place, Apparating away to his destination.

His thoughts were still in the alleyway as he pushed aside the warped wooden door, stooping to pass beneath the lintel. The third such encounter – or rather, non-encounter – in the past fortnight. Always a Tail, almost as soon as he left home, always a Steelheart, but never a confrontation. Enough to unsettle even Harry Potter.

'Hello Harry.'

The face that greeted him was a foreign one – as was their agreement – though the eyes burned with a familial similarity. Sunken cheeks were cut in deep shadow, as were gaunt eye sockets beneath a shelf of a brow. Sandy hair was thinning, much as the individual was all over. Emaciated limbs peeked out from tattered, limp clothes. Joints were discoloured and swollen. The voice was stretched taut over barely-withheld pain.

He was dying.

'Another follower?' a shadow of curiosity dared to seep through the pain-riddled monotone.

'Aye, another Steelheart.'

'Don't let them find me.'

The figure sat up on a thin, rickety cot, his back up against a grimy wall. His hair, face and clothes were filthy. He'd barely moved since Harry entered. The only emotion he showed was through his eyes, and it was as if they were concentrating everything else, bottling up all of his non-existent body language, his gestures and voice inflection. The raw, pleading look he gave Harry now tore at something deep within his chest.

'Never.'

Relief sagged the other man's shoulders. 'You had a visitor. A note.' He gestured to the single table abutting the opposite wall. Along with its lone chair, they made for the only other furniture inside this cramped, filthy space.

A single sheet of parchment sat atop the rotting surface, stark and almost mocking in its perfection against the poverty of their surroundings. Harry picked it up tentatively, fumbling at the wax seal; a cursive, silver "L". He knew the sender already.

 _Failure is not a bedmate with whom I care to share more than a fleeting encounter, Mr Potter. Thus, imagine my displeasure when I found her clammy embrace awaiting me this evening past._

 _Thrice now, our exhaustive efforts have come to naught. Yet each time, closer. I estimate that the extent of this most recent failure can be measured in hours, rather than days. When I arrived the ichor still bubbled, and the shattered remnants of the ruins_ _were still hot to the touch._

 _I've no doubt that our target can feel the kiss of our breath upon their neck, even now. My only question is; will they spook? A cornered wolf may be trapped, but it will fight all the more viciously for it._

 _And so I stand firm in my quest for knowledge, and my conviction that we must direct our efforts into discovering the_ _ **why**_ _behind these attacks; unravel that mystery, and the rest shall come apart around us like a house of cards._

 _This does, of course, necessitate a return trip to study the Shard, as I am sure you are aware. Within it, I am certain, lies the key to all of this. I understand you may have some, admittedly valid, reservations about making the trip once more, given the previous outing, but let me preclude your objections with the following:_

 _It is already required of me that I make one more perilous journey in the near future – a journey that will force me to miss an important gathering I would very much rather attend. My movements will be watched this year, now more than ever, and I can ill-afford to raise suspicions with further trips abroad. Thus, the job must fall to you._

 _Finally, I must plead restraint in acting out against the Ministry. While their inaction is no doubt frustrating, their refusal to involve themselves opens the door for us to act alone, free from such binding ties as bureaucracy or public morality._

 _It is safe to say, that after whatever brief hiatus they may have taken last year, the Desecrator has well and truly returned. It may be that our vigilance and decisive action alone are all that stands between them and their goal. You've succeeded in such a world-beating task before, Mr Potter, I've no doubt that with my help, you can do so again._

 _Your continued support of the L.A.W.W is, as always, appreciated._

 _Cordially yours,_

The letter was unsigned, as usual.

Harry raised his gaze, and with a shaky hand pressed his glasses firmly up the bridge of his nose. He studied the figure on the bed before him, returned the expectant stare with his own stoic once.

'I have to go back,' was all he said.

Enervation and lethargy be damned, the figure sprung forth, barrelling into Harry with alarming weight. Feeble arms clutched at Harry's shirt with remarkable strength, and those eyes, so expressive, so familiar, burned with a desperate heat.

'No. You can't. Don't do it Harry, please, I beg you. What if it gets loose? What if it kills you, or worse… What if you end up like _me?'_

Harry did his best to fend off the desperate, clutching hands, but long, yellowed nails scratched at his forearms. 'It won't, trust me. And L.A.W.W is right – whoever they are. The Shard was the beginning of all of this-' Harry paused to gesture around the room. 'So I'm going to make sure it's the end of it, too. I'll go as soon as I can, but first I need to take care of these Tails. I will _not_ lead them to it.'

His companion sagged in defeat, all of a sudden rendered almost lifeless once more. He collapsed in a boneless heap back on to the bed, and hugged himself tightly.

'I've got a bad feeling about it Harry, that's all. The same feeling I had when we went last time. What if the Desecrator really is Voldemort? How would we defeat him without you? You barely managed last time around.'

'I'm confident it's _not_ Voldemort,' Harry countered, more sternly than he would have liked. 'But regardless, I have to do this, and I will not be dissuaded, not even by you.'

Green eyes met sunken brown, and a silent accord passed between them.

'Here,' Harry sighed, placing down a wrapped package atop the table. 'Ginny cooked it herself, so you're a braver man than I if you do eat it. Until tomorrow.'

The pair clasped hands briefly, and Harry was gone with the sound of a whip-crack. Dust settled slowly in the room after him, and the figure left behind began to sob.

Back at the Potter household, Harry strode in through the front door and set the letter down on the kitchen table. He wrapped an arm around the waist of his wife and kissed her passionately. He ruffled the hair of his eldest son and agreed to watch as, together with his youngest son, the pair demonstrated their latest broomstick manoeuvres.

He "oohed" and "aahed" acceptably, while the air behind him shimmered ever-so-slightly, and for the briefest of moments, the letter disappeared from sight.

All around him, he could feel the pressure of the world building, as if his battles had gifted him with an innate sensitivity for it. It was as if he was looking into Foe glass, and shapes were slowly beginning to coalesce around him. Enemies were beginning to step into the light, while some still wore the masks of friends and kept themselves in "cordial" regard. Ginny, Ron and Hermione were working around the clock, as he was, and everywhere they turned people would whisper how things felt like 'last time' again.

As Harry looked out and saw James and Albus' match break down into a friendly, brotherly tussle, he felt his fists clench unbidden. The playful sounds of their laughter rolled up the lawn, and his wife laid her head upon his shoulder gently. No, Harry knew. This was _nothing_ like last time, and the longer it took his enemies to realise that, the better.


	2. Tattered Robes & Frayed Nerves

The ring of the bell that cried out into darkness sounded forlorn, almost plaintive to James' ears. The only sound that answered it was that of their shuffling, uncertain footsteps. No mugs were raised in greeting, no chairs scraped on wood nor cutlery clattered on plates. The Leaky Cauldron was silent. Deathly so. Tom the barkeep manned his post, unmoving and unmoved by their presence. Only his eyes followed the path they tracked through the dingy, abandoned space.

James paused at a booth in which he had once shared a Butterbeer with his father. He like to think of it as 'theirs' and he always chose that spot when they came here. A finger traced along the table came free covered in a thick coating of greasy dust. But looking around the room, there was no-one present to complain.

'Wizardkind spooks easily, these days,' Harry Potter mused to the room at large.

The room didn't speak back, but its empty countenance spoke of a firm acquiescence.

James felt an inexplicable rush of relief when he stepped out into daylight once more with his siblings and father. The Cauldron had felt oppressive, the air close and fetid, almost sickly.

In the small space before the entrance to Diagon Alley, a stack of discarded _Prophet's_ ruffled in the breeze. Their headlines bore such black news as: _Quarantine Level Raised – Public Houses Off-Limits;_ or _St Mungo's at Capacity, First Time since War._

The edges of the papers were singed, and it looked as if someone had taken to the stack with a knife. Tattered remnants stirred about the children's feet.

As the bricks unfolded before them, James awaited the wash of cool Diagon Alley air upon his face to cleanse away the dankness of the Leaky Cauldron. Lily had been abuzz with excitement that morning. She now stood a little uncertainly at Harry's side, clutching his hand tightly. Al took it all in with an even keel.

James drew a deep breath, but had to catch himself from gagging. Far from fresh, the air held the very same sickly odour. He covered his mouth with his collar. Diagon Alley seemed today a shadow of its former self. Dirt and grime coated the cobblestones, so thick in places as to provide a greasy film. Al slipped twice as they made their way up the street. Scattered piles of rubbish had built up against empty shopfronts. It was from these that the sweet smell of rot and decay was strongest. James screwed up his face.

Several of the stores had thick boards barring the doors, and in the right light James could see the glimmer of layered Enchantments sealing them shut. Florean Fortescue was no longer serving ice-cream, and Scribbulus' Writing Instruments had a smoke-stained wooden sign hung on the door that read: _Due to the increasing virility and spread of this currently unidentified and moste maleficent malady, we shall be taking orders by owl-post only._

The sign caught on the breeze and banged hard against the door, causing James to start. Owl order. Everything was owl order these days. Even his friends, it seemed. No-one was willing – or allowed – to meet up. No-one wanted to spend any more time in public places than was absolutely necessary. More risk of running into one of the Infected. He'd hardly even seen _Freddy_ all summer. James couldn't remember the last time he'd gone more than a week without seeing Freddy.

The family continued their march up the street, and eventually passed the entrance to Knockturn Alley. A heavy, wrought-iron gate was swung shut across the path. Someone had blasted one of the hinges, and it hung awry. There was just enough space to squeeze through the gap it left to the wall, as evinced by a tattered strand of dirty carmine robe that had caught upon the metalwork.

A rush of air whistled hollowly out from the dingy alleyway, and blasted James in the face. He coughed and buried his mouth and nose once more. That was the true source of the smell of illness now permeating the entire Diagon Alley. Somewhere in there. And somebody had opened the gate.

It wasn't until they were level with _Quality Quidditch Supplies_ that the Potters encountered another soul. Two, in fact. A witch and wizard hurried past them in the other direction, with hoods and collars up. Their wands were drawn. As they neared, James heard a low mumbling emanating from their shadowy cowls, and realised that they were repeatedly casting shield and barrier charms.

Harry Potter's mouth twisted into a distasteful grimace. 'I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'll be glad to be sending you all off to Hogwarts this year. I don't like the way the wizarding community gets when faced with a threat. It's straight to cornered wild dog, no middle ground. They'll turn on each other soon, mark my words. And all in response to a mere wave of sickness…'

'But dad,' Al interjected, 'They say there's outbreaks outside of London now. Wizarding communities up and down the country, and still not a single person has been cured. And they _still_ haven't found Dorian Alder _and_ they say the Desecrator has been active all throughout Europe and even down to _Africa,_ and-'

'And you need to stop reading so much of the _Prophet.'_ Harry ruffled Al's hair with a small smile.

'But what if the sickness jumps to Muggles, Dad? It could risk exposing us!'

'Not a single Muggle has fallen ill yet, Al. And I have a feeling it will remain that way. You let me and your mother worry about the cloud of impending doom that the _Prophet_ seems to like keeping Wizardkind under, and you just worry about that run of Outstanding grades, and working on that Wronskei Feint.'

Harry was looking pointedly ahead, and James had the distinct feeling that he was avoiding saying something, but he left well alone as the family pushed open the door to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

A genuine smile stole across James' face upon their entry. Here, at last, was a bastion of garish defiance in the face of the creeping grey lethargy and distrust that assaulted it on all sides. Within three steps of the door, two things had already exploded. Bright pink dust like tiny coloured diamonds showered down upon them. Laughter rang out from everywhere. People _smiled._ A young girl screamed as she ran madly around the room with something resembling a gigantic green slug affixed to her arm. Every few seconds the creature would emit a loud belch and envelop a little more of the limb. James wondered briefly if they'd get to watch the thing eat her whole.

'James!' an exuberant Freddy leapt down from a perch way up in the rafters to join them. Impressively, he floated down like a feather on a non-existent breeze.

Harry signalled over the children's heads to George Weasley, and the pair promptly ducked out to the back room. Al and Lily drifted off as Freddy wrapped an arm around James' shoulder and guided him to the largest of the display stands.

'I'd almost forgotten what you looked like,' Fred joked. 'Some summer, hey? Everyone from around here has been going mad the past few weeks. Shutting up shop and what-not. Old Florean's taken off overseas. Said he's too old for all of this.

'See they found that missing wizard's wand down south somewhere, shattered. Doesn't look good. Reckon it's the Desecrator?'

'I reckon my Dad knows something about it, whatever _it_ is.'

'He's Harry Potter, of course he does. He'd know everything about everyone. Here, check this out.'

They had arrived at a nightmarish stand covered top-to-bottom in grotesque likenesses of ghouls and zombies and worse. It bore a vibrant rainbow of tiny coloured paper bags, each with a matching straw sticking out the top. James gave Fred an uncertain look.

'C'mon mate, don't be like that. We call 'em Plague Parcels. Suck on that, it's like sherbet. They'll turn you all pale and yuck like the Infected, and give you those crazy eyes. Make you smell real ripe, too. You know that stale, earthy smell the Infected have all got? Like an empty cave, or a graveyard. I damn near gave one old bird a heart attack last week when I tried it out. Turns out her son got sick. Didn't go over too well, all things considered.'

James abruptly returned the Parcel he had uplifted back to the shelf. Typical George and Fred Weasley.

James let himself relax and enjoy a tour through the rest of the Weasley's latest and greatest. He momentarily perked up when Fred mentioned that Uncle Ron had gifted him a mysterious wrapped package that wasn't to be opened until they were at Hogwarts. Though his spirits fell somewhat when he laid eyes upon it. It looked suspiciously book-like.

'Just you wait,' Fred assured him. Uncle Ron says he learned everything he knows from this little beauty.

'Everything about what?'

' _Everything.'_

Well, that cleared it up.

After a half hour Harry emerged from the back room and gathered the kids. The corners of his eyes were pinched a little tighter, and his lips were drawn in a thin line. Whatever he'd been talking to George about, it hadn't been pleasant.

Outside once more, the oppressive dereliction of the rest of Diagon Alley began to envelop the group. Clouds had gathered, and the wind now bore a kiss of promised rain.

'You two are to head straight to Flourish and Blott's, and stay there until Lily and I have got her robes fitted and her wand chosen, understand?'

James nodded along with Al. Not that there was anything to actually _do._ The place was practically a ghost-town. He'd only come along for the opportunity to see Freddy, and the hope that one of his other friends may have been here. Even though they had all told him at least twice that they'd already ordered their school supplies via owl this year.

The bookshop in question was little more than a variation on the current grim theme. The boys entered into a cramped entranceway and immediately screwed up their noses at the dank, musty scent.

'Smells like no one's been here in weeks,' Al grumbled.

'Or someone _has_ been here, and then died.' James added.

It was a far cry from the beloved new parchment smell that Cassie swore was half the reason she frequented so many bookstores. It smelled more like the parchment had gone mouldy. Sounds from within the store spoke of the presence of others, clearly undeterred by the dingy atmosphere and unpleasant scents. James followed Al deeper in among the shelves. Titles stood stacked haphazardly on chairs, and stools, even on the floor. A shattered window pane allowed a small breeze to rustle a bundle of loose scrolls, carelessly scattered down the entirety of the staircase. James was beginning to get an uneasy feeling creeping up the nape of his neck.

Al, being what James referred to as a closet-Ravenclaw, was too happy about being in the presence of so many books to notice.

'So have you decided on your electives for this year?' he asked, thumbing through a thick, leather-bound copy of Timid Winkler's _Things in the Dark._ It bore a thin film of dust, as did everything in the store.

'Yea, I guess so. I'm doing Care of Magical creatures, because I think Dad might put me up for adoption if I don't. Not sure about what else though. Divination sounds easy, but I think Aunt Hermione might _actually_ turn me into a Niffler if I choose it.'

'I still remember Aunt Hermione's face when Rose was eight and she told that Shaman in Greece that he was full of Puffskein farts and reading tea leaves was a lie. I don't think I've ever seen her so proud.'

James slowly lowered a transcript of _Dreadful Demises and their Prolific Portents_ by someone called Sybill Trelawney back to the shelf.

Al branched off to search out a new title on Scandinavian Orchestral Orchids and James continued deeper into the store in search of something Quiddtich-related. He wended his way between precariously-packed shelves that loomed farther and farther overhead. Unloved books and scraps of spare parchment sat dangerously close to falling, and the further he went, the more the shelves leaned in towards each other towards a sort of drunken embrace.

James turned a corner and was startled by a fat rat scurrying underfoot. Its steps left a trail in the dust, which was gathering even thicker here. He couldn't remember ever being this deep in the bookstore. He could have sworn the Quidditch section was back next to the Fantastic Beasts. Perhaps he'd made a wrong turn at Magical Illnesses…

He spun to head back the way he'd come, but found himself staring directly at a solid wall of tomes on the various effects of Entrapment Hexes. Vexed, he spun off in the other direction. A quick tap of his pocket told him his wand was in place. But it was just a bookstore. He was overreacting, surely.

He stopped against a carved ebony shelf to regain his bearings. A faint rustling sound was the only warning he had before a gigantic book crashed spine-first into the spot he had just vacated. It had fallen open on a page titled _The Dangers of Gravity-Defying Spells._ It was like the damned place was laughing at him.

Several more narrow twists and turns, and he was having to strain to see in the dim light. He made his roundabout way to a faint glow off to his right, and sagged with relief when he turned a corner and saw another figure standing in the pool of daylight.

'Oh thank Merlin. I was beginning to think I'd got lost in there. Do you know which way to- _Odette?!'_

'The way to Odette? Why James Potter, I do believe you've just followed your heart. Or perhaps another organ… right to her.'

Odette Mansfield stood before him, bathed from behind in a golden glow. She had turned to face him, and the sunlight was illuminating several loose strands of her ash-blonde hair in a molten glow. Her face was cast half in shadow, emphasised by heavy dark eye makeup and her rich, painted lips.

Had she grown taller since last they'd met? Changed her hair in some way? James couldn't work out why, but there was something about her appearance that he couldn't drag his eyes away from. Meanwhile, the silence between them had begun to stretch.

'H-hi Odette.'

He'd hoped for something with a little more wow-factor. For some reason he couldn't think of a word to say beyond that.

'Hello James. What were you doing back there? You know that's the store room, right? It's usually off-limits. There are a lot of dangerous books in there.'

James knew nothing of the sort, but he felt like admitting would make him look stupid, and all of a sudden he _really_ didn't want that to happen. He hurriedly tried to think of a suitable explanation.

'Yea, well, I go where I please. I'm James Potter, after all.'

A touch of nonchalant rebellion and disregard for the rules. That was much more impressive and Odette-like.

An expressive roll of those shadowed eyes indicated otherwise.

'Ugh. James, I'm not really in the mood for you to come and gloat, or whatever it is you're trying to do. I'll see you at school, ok?'

'Wait!'

Odette looked down at the hand James had laid on her forearm to stop her from leaving. She raised a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow.

'Sorry. I just wanted to- how was your summer?'

'It was fine. I travelled to France with Mother, spent a few weeks on the Riviera. Made some new… friends.'

'Cool. We haven't been out of the house much. The whole sickness thing, and all of that.'

'Fascinating.'

The conversation suffered a rather abrupt death. James wiggled his toes in his shoes a little uncomfortably. He didn't remember it being this awkward. The sound of the shop door opening and closing brought a gust of wind bearing the sweet scent of Odette's perfume. A thought suddenly struck him. Perhaps she was still mad over their last meeting last year.

'Odette I just wanted to say I-'

'Ah, _mon cygnet,_ there you are. Come, we must hurry. The Minister doesn't like to be kept waiting.'

James gawked as an exquisitely dressed young man glided into their aisle. He was at least a head taller than James, and the way his elegant blazer stretched across his broad chest spoke of a muscular build. He spoke with a thick French accent and reeked of casual self-confidence and assured superiority. James got the feeling that he wasn't going to like this newcomer.

Odette went right a head and _looped her arm through his._

The Frenchman turned to James and favoured him with a patronising wink. 'Farewell little man.'

Now he was sure of it.

Odette didn't so much as turn to wave him farewell, and James stood glaring at the spot where they had disappeared for a long time after the tinkling bell announced they had left the building.

He didn't know why it upset him so much. He'd spent the best part of two years hating almost everything about Odette; her bullying ways, her haughtiness and self-importance, even her stupid fake posh accent she lathered on any time she spoke to James. Well, except for today…

He shrugged it off and went to find Al. Perhaps talking about Swedish flowers would be boring enough to distract him from the small little ball of disappointment in his stomach.

Al did little to help the situation.

'Did you see who was just in here? It was Loyal Clavet. _The_ Loyal Clavet. The youngest Beauxbatons School Seeker in over a century. He only holds, like, _every_ school record they have _and_ he's only fourth year. I think he was with that crazy Slytherin Seeker you always talk about in your sleep.'

'I- what? No- Shut _up!_ ' James resisted the urge to hit him. Barely.

This day was going from bad to worse. James had lost his excitement at getting out of the house, and just wanted to get back home before something even worse happened-

Both boys yelled in alarm as a loud claxon sounded all up and down the alley. It was silent for a second, before returning even louder, forcing them to clamp their hands over ears.

'What is that?' Al yelled.

James had a sinking feeling he had an idea.

They bolted for the door, hoping to get back to their father. First Al, and then James crashed painfully into the wooden frame. It didn't budge so much as an inch. All around the edges of the door James could see the tell-tale glowing of magic sealing the portal shut. Outside, loud crashes sounded as bars sprung up from the very pavement, sealing off the windows from those outside.

'No going anywhere now, boys,' an elderly patron sneered down at them from the top of the stairway. His beady eyes were fixed on the street outside.

James pressed his face up against the glass, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening. A horrifying thud sent him reeling, and a frantic witch from outside began scrabbling at the door handle, pressing herself up against the splintered wood.

'Let me in!' she cried desperately. 'There's Infected out here, please!'

The elderly wizard just shook his head solemnly.

James couldn't pull away from the witch's wide-eyed stare. She was hammering against the glass now with bloodied fists. He could see where her desperation had torn the nails away from the skin. She was leaving bloody smears across the window panes. It trickled slowly down and began to pool in the sill.

The rest of those caught in the street weren't much better off. A surprising number of witches and wizards were dashing back and forth, screaming madly. Some few who remained more composed were able to Apparate away to safety. Others who were unable to simply fled aimlessly up and down. James had yet to actually _see_ an Infected.

Suddenly, a wizard pointed back down the street. 'From Knockturn!' he cried. 'I told them they ought to have burned that festering hellhole to the ground!'

A vision of the damaged gate flickered into James' mind. The witch outside the window gave a final, desperate wail and Disapparated. A spray of blood fountained across the window and the boys jumped back, disgusted. She'd Splinched herself, and half of her left hand remained twitching in the doorway. James felt Al double over and heard retching. He deemed it time to step away from the glass, himself.

'No need to worry, boys,' the Elderly wizard assured them. 'There's a dozen Charms and Hexes keeping this place safe. As long as we stay put we'll be-'

 _Crash!_

All three of them yelled, as a new figure hammered itself bodily into the main shop window outside. This time, however, there was no desperate pleading. There was no begging, and the look in its eyes was less frantic terror and more frenzied bloodlust.

The Infected. Wearing a filth-stained robe of brilliant crimson.

James stared in morbid fascination. He could hardly think of the man hammering repeatedly on the glass as an " _it"_ like the Prophet referred to them. He just seemed to be a middle aged man, a little on the skinny side. His face was emaciated, the whites of his eyes yellowed and his teeth looked to have been filed to points, but he was still human enough that when a squad of the newly-minted Steelhearts-cum-Aurors arrived and started firing deadly Hexes at him James felt a pang of horror.

The spells that did make contact though, seemed ineffective, fizzing out on pale, greyed flesh. When one sailed over the Infected's shoulder and shattered a portion of the shop window James got a whiff of the strong, mouldy earth smell that was a sure sign of the sickness.

A dozen bodies were soon piled on top of the struggling figure, and a portly little Healer dressed in the green of St Mungo's garb was jumping up and down on her toes to try and see in among the dogpile.

'Ooh, don't hurt him please. No, stop that! Oh dear, that was his arm, come now.'

James looked on through the shattered remains of the shop window as the Infected was hoisted to his feet and dragged away. As they reached the boundaries of earshot, the greyed figure raised a bruised and blooded arm to point a yellow-nailed finger at James.

His filed teeth set in a snarl, his voice was barely more than a hiss.

'Potter…'


	3. Illicit Literature & Portentous Surprise

Platform nine-and-three-quarters held the air of a battleground tensed before a fight more than that of a place of loving farewells and well-wishes. James' father hurried him along with a vice-like grip on his shoulder, and he stared wide-eyed through the gaps in the crowd. _Gaps._ There were never gaps in the crowd these days. Not with over a thousand students now attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As he looked closer, James saw that the decline in numbers was due to the lack of the usual hangers-on; the younger siblings and cousins, older Aunts and Grandparents. Those who gathered to either pine after what they could not yet have, or internally relive their own golden years.

It seemed that no more than were necessary were making the trip out in public today.

Where these small familial groups would occasionally intermingle, the snippets of conversations that James overheard made abundantly clear the reason for the scarcity.

'An Infected in Diagon Alley… In broad _daylight!'_

'It's getting worse. A cousin of mine in Dorset just caught it. Poor lass…'

'I'm just glad that the kids will be under Renshaw's protection, you know. They say she's destined to be the next Dumbledore…'

'The Ministry _needs_ to step in. I can't believe they got rid of the Potters.'

'Say, did you hear that Diagon Alley attack was after the Potter boys. Went right for 'em so Aunt Maisie says.'

' _Shh_ Errol, there they are. They don't _look_ sick, do they…?'

And on it continued. Like Harry, fathers kept short leashes on their children. Many held hands or shoulders fiercely, and wands sat loose in holsters, or were openly carried at the ready by the more flighty among the crowd.

James' trunk rattled along the uneven cobblestones as the four of them made their way along the platform. He was glad for the noise. It helped to drown out the buzz of conversation that seemed to rise around them like a tidal wave as they made their way through the press. It gathered before them, swelling to an angry crescendo as they passed, and leaving a lull filled with baleful stares in its wake. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stir.

They found Uncle Ron in a quiet corner of the platform, returning the glares cast their way with interest, a hand lain protectively on the shoulder of both of his children.

'Alright mate?' Harry nodded to Ron.

'Bloody mental, the lot of them,' Ron growled. 'Half of them think we're all Infected, the other half think we're the ones who caused it.'

Harry gave Ron a significant look. 'Aye. When the _Prophet_ is all tangled up in the bedsheets with the Ministry, it pays to stay on their good side. But we've weathered it before. The truth will out, and all of that.'

Ron cracked a small smile. 'Always knew you spent too much time with Dad.'

Ron' smile was something of a signal for the group, and whatever invisible barriers everyone had drawn up around themselves momentarily subsided. Al greeted Rose with a big hug, and Lily and Hugo shared nervous half-smiles, both about to begin their Hogwarts experience together.

'Make sure to look after each other this year, kids,' Harry said to the group. 'There's going to be a few new faces around the school, which is bound to cause some unease in times like this, so just… look out for each other.'

James frowned at the way his father had emphasised the new faces. There was always new faces; a hundred-odd first years joined their ranks every year…

'This year is going to be a little different,' Ron added with a knowing smile. 'So keep your wits about you. Make sure not to spend too much time _fraternising with the enemy.'_

That seemed like an ominous statement, but Harry laughed and gave Ron a friendly cuff around the ears. When he next spoke, it was directly to Lily.

'Look Lil, I know that first year can be scary-'

'I'm not scared Daddy.'

'Of course not. But remember you can owl us as often as you like, and James and Al will be there as well. And don't worry if you aren't in Gryffindor-'

'Oh I'm not worried about the _Sorting_ Daddy.' Lily tossed her hair with a smile. She had developed a habit of fingering her wand where it was tucked loosely into her waistband. Cedar and Unicorn tail hair, an ominous combination.

'Oh I don't doubt that. Like I said before, new faces means new uncertainties, so make sure to keep your friends close-'

'And my enemies closer?'

Harry gave Lily an exasperated look. 'I have a funny feeling that you're going to be the reason I go prematurely grey, my love.'

With a final hug and a round of farewells, the group headed towards the train, followed once more by the rising drone of whispered conversation. James took it upon himself to scowl back for all of them.

He carried that mood all the way up onto the train, where he shouldered roughly past another student.

'Oi! Watch it Potter, your sickness will rub off on me.'

James groaned inwardly. Of all people, it had to have been Preston Lynch.

'Back off Lynch. The only thing that's going to make me sick is having to stare at your ugly face a moment longer.'

'You little-'

Lynch lunged forward at James, who was caught unawares. His eyes widened as Lynch's fist rushed towards his jaw-

Only for it to fall short, and Lynch himself fall forwards to the floor with an indignant squawk. Lily was deftly tucking her wand back into her waistband and looking down with wide-eyed innocence.

The small Potter-Weasley brigade hurried off down the train.

'You can sit with us if you want, Lil,' James offered. 'I think you and Holly might get along…'

Lily simply rolled her eyes in response. 'I can make my _own_ friends, James.' And with that, she ducked off into a nearby compartment brimming with the unmistakeable pomp and self-assuredness of haughty pureblood first-years.

Harry wasn't going to be the only one who Lily turned grey at this rate.

Al and Rose split off shortly after, and James pushed on to find his friends, sidling down along the train and through a cross-section of the students bound for Hogwarts. A group of seventh years lounged casually with their feet on the seats, showing off to one another with the latest and greatest spells they had learned. Casual indifference on the outside, but James could see from the slight aura pulsing around the door that their compartment was locked. A handful of shifty-eyed second years huddled together in the next compartment, waving teary goodbyes through the window, with wands held in shaky hands. One member of that group went so far as to shrink away from James as he walked past. A pair of newly-minted sixth year prefects flashed their badges at their friends in the next compartment; sunlight and envy glinted off the metal faces in equal amounts. But for every compartment that was open, two or three had the blinds pulled and the locks sealed. The rhythmic thumping emanating from one such compartment made James glad in some cases, but mostly it served only to upset him. Three generations of the wizarding world now had been dragged through the raking clutches of various wars. It seemed that the scars they left behind ran deep indeed.

A small-scale explosion from up ahead pulled his attention to the present, and a familiar figure emerged from a cloud of cloying purple smoke.

'That should do it, young-uns! You're now – _eck –_ completely fumigated and Malady-free. At the low, low price of – _eck_ – six Sickles apiece! Lasts as long as four weeks. Don't mind that horn Dalton, it should disappear in a day or two!'

Fred Weasley stumbled, coughing from the smog and flashed James a winning smile. 'Best we get out of here, before they realise what that _actually_ does.'

'What-'

'Ask me no questions; I'll tell you no lies!'

Fred grabbed James' arm and the pair darted through the smoke, leaving a chorus of angry second-years' cries behind.

Safely within the confines of the next train car, Fred ushered James into another of the closed-blinds compartments where more familiar faces awaited.

'Alright James?' Tristan Macmillan stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

James took it, and found his own crushed by an incredibly firm handshake. Thick bunches of muscles bulged on Tristan's forearm, and they carried all the way up to the solid, broad-shouldered figure he cut against the leather seating.

'I think he's about ninety-seven percent muscle,' Fred quipped.

'Well if you'd spent an entire summer chasing rogue Demiguise' across the countryside and building stone fences _with no magic_ you'd be in shape too,' Tristan replied with a grin. 'Although I suppose "pear" _is_ technically a shape…'

James laughed and turned to embrace Clip, the other occupant of the compartment. Unlike Tristan, who had yet again undergone an impressive growth spurt, Clip Wallace seemed as slim and wiry as ever; almost frail by comparison. But his brown eyes were bright and his smile genuine.

'James! You _have_ to tell us about the Infected attack. Were they really after you? How'd you get away? I overheard Leah Ridley saying you fought one off with your bare hands!'

'Not quite, mate. I'll tell the story when everyone gets here. Has anyone seen the girls?'

Just then the train lurched into motion, and James took a seat opposite a sheepish-looking Fred.

'Well I did see them earlier. They wanted to get a compartment together, but I couldn't wait to show you this.' He whipped out the parcel that Uncle Ron had gifted him, that he'd shown James on his trip to Diagon Alley. 'He said it was probably a good idea to not open it in front of the girls, if we valued the opportunity to ever use it… Whatever that means.'

Curiosity piqued, James leaned in. 'So how did you get away?'

'Well, you see… I might have slightly locked them in the storage carriage and burned a little Obfuscation Ointment to buy us some time.'

'Buy us some time?!' James spluttered.

'Until they _murder_ us, more like.' Tristan's face was a comical mixture between admiration and astonishment.

Clip held his head in his hands, rocking back and forth slowly. 'I'd told mum it was going to be _safe_ this year. I'd promised her. And I'm going to die before I even get to school.'

'Relax,' Fred assured. 'They won't remember a thing… probably.'

When he did unwrap the present, it was with a slightly shaking hand. And all four boys had brought their wands within easy reach. James wondered if they ought to pile their trunks against the door for good measure.

The wrappings fell away and revealed a book, as James had suspected. The title was upside down from where he sat, and he read it aloud, slowly. 'Twelve Fail-safe Ways to Charm Witches…' The title stirred some passing familiarity in his mind.

Meanwhile, Tristan had slumped to the floor and was on his knees prostrate before Fred.

'It's… I never thought I'd see a copy in the flesh, as long as I lived. Outlawed in seventeen countries… A hundred Galleon fine just for owning it in France, so they say. The most Holy Scripture…' He made several reverent bowing motions. 'May I… touch it?'

Fred, bemused, passed it over. Tristan held it as one would a newborn child. He turned the pages with the utmost care.

'So what exactly _is_ it?' James asked, confused. None of them were particularly adept at Charms, as Professor Budd routinely reminded them…

'What is it, he asks?' Tristan looked positively offended. 'Only the most sacred text of all who follow the path of Divine Debauchery. The Father, Son and Holy Spirit of the-'

'It's a book on how to attract girls,' Clip cut in, exasperatedly. 'How to talk to them, how to snog them. The full spectrum, really. Ahem, well, so I've been told...'

As Tristan was flipping through the pages, James felt a slight colour rise in his cheeks as he glimpsed the contents. So _this_ was where those stick-figure diagrams were coming from…

'Look here,' Tristan insisted. 'It's genius: _In matters of formal dancing, the courtly wizard will know to compliment his date not simply on her dress – which any fool may buy with sufficient supply of Galleons – but on that feature of her outfit which she has clearly worked most painstakingly on. For example; "The way you have done your hair accentuates your cheekbones in a most becoming fashion." Or, "Your eyes smoulder most alluringly in this evening light."_ '

'Do people actually say that?' James asked, aghast. He'd feel a right fool talking about smouldering cheekbones, or whatever it was. He had a sudden mental image of Holly slapping him in the middle of the Great Hall for such a statement.

Tristan made a sign against evil with his hands. 'Don't you dare speak against the Gospel! Look here, there's an entire chapter on snogging: _The most important thing a wizard must take into account at this stage is-'_

But James never learned what the most important thing was, as at that very moment the door to their compartment exploded in a shower of wood and glass, and four figures stood outlined by slanting sunlight. James' last coherent thought was that their eyes were not so much smouldering as they were burning with righteous fury and vengeance.

The remaining several hours of the train journey to Hogwarts were a blur of pain and discomfort for the boys. James spent his time crammed into the luggage rack with his knees bound up against his chest, and a horrifically evil spell of Holly's that dripped water onto the back of his neck non-stop for the entire journey. From his vantage point up high he could see one of Clip's legs, unmoving, poking out from beneath the seats, and Tristan's fingers where they were painfully squished peeking out the rim of Holly's trunk. James feared for Fred's safety most of all, as the girls had carted him off with a lot of talk about insertion that he didn't like the sound of one bit.

The girls returned, and proceeded to happily pass the journey as if they were out for nothing more than an innocent vaunt through the countryside. Rain used James' Galleons to buy at least a dozen of everything from the trolley, and they gossiped happily about all of the nasty spells they knew, and whether Tristan or Clip would hit the ground first if they were both tossed from the astronomy tower. Holly had agreed to spirit the book away to her most secret of hidey-holes, and she sat with it smugly on her lap. Every time Tristan would stir, she'd kick her feet up onto her trunk, squishing his fingers and silencing him with a whimper.

James had never been so glad to arrive at Hogsmeade station. The boys were set free once the girls had left, and managed to find a bemused Fred wandering the platform wild-eyed and with a suspicious limp.

They rode up towards the castle in sheepish silence.

At the Gryffindor table, James, Fred and Clip stared listlessly at their plates all through Renshaw's welcome and the entire Sorting Hat's song. Cat sat a good distance away from them, and shot them pitying stares at regular intervals. It wasn't until halfway through the sorting that James began to regather his wits. _Lily!_ He spied her among the fidgeting first years – had James been that small? She seemed the calmest of the lot, chatting idly with a prissy-looking blonde girl from the train to whom James took an instant dislike.

Peasegood, Cyrill trundled off towards the Ravenclaw table to a chorus of cheers, and James' nerves jumped to life. Peasegood was uncomfortably close to-

'Potter, Lily!'

James started. He tried to catch Lily's eye as she sauntered up the dais, but her gaze was fixed firmly ahead. His fathers' message that morning had been clear: they needed to look out for each other. He should have found her on the train and offered her some advice. She must be terrified; she'd always been good at hiding her emotions. James felt himself reaching for his wand – for all the stupid good that would do – as she placed the Hat atop her head. She was the baby of the family, the only girl. It was his job to protect her, especially now that everyone was acting so distrusting and suspicious.

Unlike with Al, however, James was less concerned with Lily's Sorting. Everyone who knew her remarked on how much alike to her namesake she appeared. And Lily Evans had been a Gryffindor. One of the best and brightest, evidently. James surreptitiously shuffled down the bench a bit so she could fit in next to him, as it appeared that most of the people she had been sitting with on the train had already been sorted into-

' _Slytherin!'_

Wait, _what?_ James looked up at Lily in shock, and then over to the Slytherin table. And then back again. There must have been a mistake. The Hat had got it wrong. The air in the Hall was thick with stunned silence. James made to stand up, but Fred yanked him back to his seat.

'There's nothing you can do, mate. She's Sorted, now.'

'No. She can't be. She's not a… She can't be a… _Slytherin.'_

Despite the fact that one of his closest friends was a Slytherin, the word still felt like a dirty swearword in his mouth. Slytherin was fine and all, but it wasn't… it wasn't for _Potters_.

His eyes bored into Lily as she strolled calmly across to the Slytherin table. She looked so calm, even smiling slightly. And, to James, every step she took in that direction was a display of acceptance. And every step drove a dagger of betrayal somewhere deep in James' chest. She sat down with her back facing him, and he didn't look away until both Lorcan and Lysander Scamander – Cat's half-brothers – had been Sorted into Hufflepuff. Clip's hand rested on his own, and it came away slicked with blood from the puncture marks where his nails had dug deep into his palm.

Lily's haughty blonde friend had joined her at the Slytherin table, and James nudged Fred questioningly, having missed her Sorting.

'Nerissa Sayre,' Fred muttered. 'Some sort of pureblood princess. Her mother went to school here, but ran away after the war. Probably a Death-Eater, or something. Whoever she is, Renshaw has been watching her like a hawk ever since she stepped in here.'

James clenched his fists once more and felt the sharp bite of pain. Trouble, is what she was, of that he was certain.

He ate in silence after that, his eyes rarely leaving Lily's back. He tried to get her attention with the intensity of his stare alone, but his fixation earned him little more than murderous glares from Holly, and the occasional uppity smirk from Nerissa Sayre.

The feast dragged on and an air of lethargy settled heavily over the students. James scowled at the room in general – how could they all be so content when such a grave injustice had occurred under their very noses?! The low hum of conversation died abruptly as Galatea Renshaw rose to address them.

Her high leather boots echoed menacingly across the flagstones. No-one dared speak now that the Headmistress had announced her intent to talk. Her sweeping black robes seemed to absorb the flickering candlelight, in sharp contrast to the bright silver trim at cuff and collar. Silver-winged raven hair was pulled back sharply from her face, and piercing eyes scanned the crowd as dark-painted lips pursed in apparent disapproval.

'Again I say welcome, students. I promise not to keep you; I have but a few trivial notices, and a singular announcement of some portent. As always, for first-years and any older students who possess the memory retention of a stunned Grindylow, the Forbidden Forest is well-and-truly off-limits. Additionally, the eighth floor is prohibited to all below fifth-year without a faculty guide.

'I should like to take this opportunity to reiterate and reintroduce the highly-praised Hogwarts extra-curricular program, and remind students that sign-up must be completed by the end of tomorrow.

'Additionally, we have one staffing change this year. I would like to introduce our newest Teacher Aide and Professor of Accelerated Learning Disciplines, Miss Sayre!'

Sayre, as in Nerissa? James looked up to the staff table, where the newest faculty member was offering a gracious curtsey to the room. She was young, James could tell. With dark hair. As she tilted her head upwards James felt an icicle slide down the back of his robe as Hogwarts' newest Professor locked gazes with him.

Professor Sayre's first name was Wren.

'Bloody hell,' Fred breathed.

Wren was now a teacher. Wren was Renshaw's niece. And Wren shared the same last name as Lily's new friend, whom James had already decided was bad news. He held his head in his hands despondently. He just wanted to head up to bed and curl up in a ball. He couldn't take any more of these nasty surprises.

'Now, children, this final announcement might come as something of a surprise to many of you.'

All James could do was whimper.

'I am proud to announce that this year, for the first time in nearly a quarter-century, the Wizarding World will once more bear witness to the spectacle that is the Tri-Wizard Tournament!'


	4. Awkward Encounters & Dicey Distractions

The briefest of pauses followed the announcement, stretched thin over a stunned silence, and then it was as if a wind rose from the very flagstones beneath their feet. It carried the students up, out of their seats and brought forth from their lungs a triumphant roar that made the floating candles flicker and sputter, some few even winking out beneath the barrage. This wind managed to unfurl wings of excitement within the students. Wings that had remained closed shut all summer, pinned down by the nervous tension and uncertainty swirling about the Malady. All of that energy burst forth now, and students mounted tables, tossed hats in the air and let out shrill calls of delight. James was dragged bodily from his sullen reverie, picked up by the sheer ecstasy on all sides and joined in, grinning like an idiot with Fred and Clip, too shocked for words.

The celebrations ended abruptly when some brave – or perhaps foolish, for that line is ever so blurred – souls let off a shower of golden sparks all along the Gryffindor table. Renshaw, up at her podium, raised a single eyebrow. That was all it took. The students at the front of the Hall saw it first, and they froze, mid-celebration, hastily straightening robes and elbowing their nearest peers in a rush to restore decorum. Those then scrambled to follow suit, and so all throughout the room, like the ripples from a stone dropped in a pond, the students of Hogwarts quietened down. From above, it might look as if that wave of quiescence was a ruffling of feathers, of a movement belonging to a single, thousand-faced beast. And its master stood waiting for obeisance.

'Your enthusiasm is duly noted, students. However, we must not be too quick to jump to conclusions; for Hogwarts will not being playing host to this year's tournament.'

That beast flinched back now, as if kicked. But a firm gaze from tis master was enough to bring it to heel.

'No, that honour goes to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Furthermore, the age restrictions added to the tournament in its most recent iteration have been upheld moving forward, meaning nobody under the age of seventeen shall be allowed to enter.'

It was a credit to Renshaw's absolute control over the student body that nary a sound was raised in protest. That same wind that had borne the students high now sat stagnant and stuffy across the room.

'In saying this, it was strongly of my opinion that the younger students ought not to miss out on such a momentous occasion. And so, with nigh-unanimous Board and Ministry approval Hogwarts has been given the honour of hosting the first Junior Tri-wizard Competition for All-round Magical Excellence! Students from fourth year and below will compete in a series of theoretical- and practical-based challenges throughout the year, earning points for their school as they go. This will culminate in a series of inter-school competitions in disciplines such as potioneering, duelling, and, of course, Quidditch-'

They'd been waiting for their chance, ever since Renshaw had announced the tournament, and the students could hold it in no longer. James and Fred were among the first to their feet this time around, and they led a raucous round of cheers all along the Gryffindor table. Throughout the Hall, students followed suit, and the many-faced beast danced at the whim of its master, and turned its head toward her in blind adoration.

The following morning found James heavy-headed and grainy-eyed at the Gryffindor table, slumped over his bowl of porridge. Archie and Will MacDougal – his Gryffindor Quidditch teammates – had thrown a party to celebrate the announcement of the tournament and their intention to enter. Even Fred had been impressed by the array of contraband material they had managed to smuggle in to the castle on the very first day. James had been more impressed by the amount of Firewhiskey they had managed to drink and remain standing.

'Remind me again whose idea it was to stay up all night planning how to make the Hogwarts Quidditch team?' Fred groaned from where he lay flat on the bench next to James.

'I'm not usually one to spout "I told you so"…' Clip began.

'And _I'm_ not usually one to strangle my friends at the breakfast table,' James finished.

'Oh, dear boys, are we _fighting_ on this fine morning?'

The three boys stared up at the source of the voice with the sort of look one might expect from a cornered Mooncalf facing down a Manticore. Tristan, who had been making his way over to join them, began backing away slowly, a piece of toast frozen halfway to his mouth.

'Come join us, Tristan dearest,' Holly Brooks called. 'We don't bite.'

'No,' Fred added, pushing himself up to a more defensible position. 'But you do-'

'Come now Freddy, that's _hardly_ appropriate breakfast-table conversation.'

Fred scowled darkly, mumbling something that sounded like, '…hurts to sit.'

Holly flounced down opposite James' position on the table. She tossed her braid over her shoulder dramatically and smiled warmly at him. Her eyes sparkled with morning sunlight and absolute innocence. James was terrified.

Cat, Cassie and Rain followed suit either side, and James found himself tightly clutching his wand within the pockets of his jeans. At least this time he was going to go down fighting.

'James Potter. I should hope that it is only your wand that you have such a fierce grip on beneath the table.'

James could barely hear the sound of Tristan choking on his toast above the rushing in his ears that signalled his utter embarrassment. Where Holly's eyes had been – almost comically – open and honest, Rains were smoky and guarded, promising all sorts of things that James wasn't sure he understood. Or wanted.

He was afforded less than a second to contemplate this, however, as the moment their eyes locked, a nauseatingly familiar sensation overwhelmed him. James' peripheral vision was snatched away, his attention tunnelled entirely on the girl before him. It was as if gravity itself had changed its mind, and that everything now centred on Rain. He clutched the table in a white-knuckled grip as he felt himself about to fall into her. He could feel his body beginning to give way, to lean inexplicably in her direction. His mind tried to fight it, but everything was chaos.

At the moment he thought his arms might give way and he would fly across the table, the feeling stopped, and Rain afforded him with the most private of smiles. Not for the first time, James wondered how everyone else had sat through that tempest so calmly.

It had been one of the strongest episodes ever. He recalled their first year, when Rain had fallen ill, and the effect had diminished almost entirely. Now, however, she was entirely the opposite. Whatever she had been doing over the holidays had done her a world of good. She was glowing. For two years James had known a girl beset by one ailment after another. Her cheekbones had been sharp, bordering on gaunt, her slender limbs on the verge of frail. But now there was a fullness to her features, and a warm glow to her skin that James realised she had been missing all this time.

Rain raised a quizzical eyebrow at his extended scrutiny.

'Erm, nice to see you Rain. You look good. Have you put on weight?'

Tristan, who had been helping himself to a large glass of water after finally swallowing his toast, promptly spat the entire contents of his mouth out over the table before them.

It wasn't until James saw a faint flush of colour dusting Rain's cheeks that he realised what he had said, and scrambled to fix it.

'I'll deal with this one,' Cassie piped up, and no sooner had James registered her presence than he was reeling from a slap to the side of the head from her infamous Dragon Book.

For someone who could still barely see over the edge of the table, she sure had a strong arm on her. James rubbed his cheek sheepishly.

'Now, now,' Holly interjected. There was the slightest curve to the corner of her lips, as if she found something incredibly funny, but wasn't allowed to show it. 'Before this all devolves into another debacle like the train, we wanted to say that we come in peace. We have held council and decided that we forgive you, and shall put everything in the past. That nasty book is now out of the equation-'

'You _destroyed_ it?!' Tristan yelped.

'No, silly. I know how much it can fetch in the right hands. Besides, we were thinking we'd quite like a read over the contents, just to keep us ahead of the curve as it were.'

She eyed the four boys with a very pointed stare.

'And besides,' at this point Holly reached over the table to squeeze James cheek – hard. 'You're our best and most dearest friends. We can't stay mad at you forever.' The _affectionate_ slap she gave James was very much on the firm side. Now both sides of his face were hurting.

'Bye, bye boys.'

The three girls, barring Cat, stood up to leave for class, blowing the boys a kiss over their respective shoulders as they skipped happily away. James watched their retreating backs with the feeling like he had just avoided a deathly encounter.

'We have _got_ to get that book back.' Tristan murmured, once they were safely out of earshot.

Cat had become distracted by her half-brothers, who had managed to tie their shoelaces to each other's shoes, and were half-hopping, half-tumbling into the Hall in a red-faced heap. James shook his head fervently in disagreement.

'No way, they will _actually_ kill us.'

'C'mon, you faced down _Atlanteans_ last year. They're just a few thirteen-year-old girls.'

'Erm hello, have you met them?' Clip asked, astounded. 'The hormonal love-child of Voldemort-stroke-Dumbledore; the only person _probably ever_ to have single-handedly taken out an Atlantean; and a five-foot terror that can swing a book with enough force to make a Beater jealous. Not to mention whatever is going on in that head of Cat's. It wouldn't surprise me if this was all her crazy, twisted plan!'

'The man makes a point,' Fred agreed, still a little breathless.

Tristan was flabbergasted. 'Cowards, the lot of you! We have allowed the most sacred of all literature to fall into the clutches of evil, and you would be content to do nothing? Particularly in such a time of dire need. _"Have you put on weight?"_ We won't survive many more encounters like that! And with two entire schools worth of young witches set to gather at Hogwarts…

'No, I cannot countenance this. I am declaring henceforth, the first Great Crusade to recover the sacred text. I shall not rest until it is once more in my possession. If I must do it one man alone, betrayed by the very people he loves, then I shall. For it is far too important to-'

'Hi Cat!' Fred yelled very pointedly.

Tristan clamped his mouth shut tight. Evidently, Holy Justice was still somewhat of a secret.

James survived double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs without major incident. He made sure he chose a seat right up the front, as close to Professor Longbottom as he could manage. Sadly, the Professor mistook his fear for enthusiasm, and three hours later James emerged from the greenhouse covered nearly head to toe in soil, potting mix and a score of other more dubious secretions.

Lunchtime, on the other hand, wasn't quite so easy. No sooner had they sat down at the Gryffindor table, the three remaining girls swooped in like the raptors they were. The four boys gave an array of weak smiles in response. Holly's grin was predatory.

'Hi boys,' she purred.

She proceeded to then insist upon sharing a meal with Tristan, much to his discomfort. James remembered a time near the end of last year when Tristan had been unable to shut up about Holly's dangerous graces – he would have killed for such an opportunity. Now, he looked like he'd rather take a dive in the Grindylow breeding tank.

James didn't escape unharmed either, as Rain had placed herself directly opposite him, and seemed to be having a riot of a time staring directly at him, so that he was unable to do anything other than gaze into his barely-touched plate of shepherd's pie. He certainly wasn't going to risk a repeat of the morning's saga, not when everyone was so on edge.

Ten minutes of pushing his food listlessly around his plate was all he could stomach, before he practically leapt to his feet.

'Well this has been fun but I really must get to Hagrid's I wanted to see him about something before class I'll see you all there have a nice lunch bye!' He blurted it all out in a single sentence, snatched at his bag and dashed from the Hall, but not before catching three severely betrayed glares from the boys.

James had no need whatsoever to visit Hagrid, but he let his feet take him out the Entrance Hall and down across the grounds, as the day was bright and clear and warm. The grass was the green-brown hue of late summer, and it crunched slightly beneath his sneakers. The barest hint of a breeze drifted gently in across the Black Lake – blessedly still, and long may it remain thus. There was an enveloping, lazy sort of feel in the air. Ample heat to induce a certain lethargy. The type of day where little would be achieved, indoors or out. The perfect day to sit on a grassy verge and care for some magical creatures, he decided.

He knocked thrice on the door to Hagrid's hut.

'Steady on now, yer early! I'm not ready yet.' The scrape of a Hagrid-sized chair on wooden floor sent shudders through James' entire body. The door opened to reveal the half-giant Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, and both their faces split into wide grins.

'Hagrid!' James was wrapped up in a gigantic one-armed hug, and Hagrid's massive wolfhound, Sirius, came to add his salutations, not one to miss out on the action.

'Ergh, Sirius! Don't lick that, even _I_ don't know what that is.' James pulled his arm – still bearing a suspicious green-grey smear – out of Sirius' exuberant reach.

'Well class doesn't start for another fifteen minutes James, but yer welcome to have a seat.'

James climbed up onto the stool proffered, politely declining a plate of something dark blue and wobbly that Hagrid passed his way.

James had described Hagrid's hut to his father in first year, and Harry had said it sounded exactly the way he remembered it. Bare wooden floors were covered in a thin layer of sawdust, and marred by countless scuffs and scrapes. Every possible square inch of wall space was decorated with some tool or cage or _creature,_ to the point where James never knew where to look. The massive, Hagrid-scaled table and chairs dominated the room, so much so that it was difficult to navigate around, even for James. But for a room filled with so many things, it still felt so _open._ Perhaps it was the sweeping mountain vistas out three of the four windows. Perhaps that the scale of everything was much larger than normal. Or, perhaps it was simply the welcoming, warming hospitality of the room's sole inhabitant.

'So what brings you down here so early, James? Never knew you or yer father to be _early_ to class. No, that was more Hermione's thing, that was.'

'Well, erm… I'm sort of trying to escape the girls.' James mumbled at his toes.

'Girls?' Hagrid roared with laughter. 'At your age? Ruddy hell what are they puttin' in yer pumpkin juice up there?'

'No, not like that!' James felt his cheeks colouring. 'It's _our_ girls. Rain and Holly and Cassie and Cat. They er, they've been acting a little weird lately. It's kind of scary.'

Hagrid's answering chuckle was a low, booming bass that rattled his teacup in its saucer. 'Not sure I'm the best one to be talkin' to about girls. Not the Hogwarts variety, at least. On the other hand, if you've got a stubborn Hippogriff that don't want ter be in heat, I'll have her breeding within the week- er, though that might be a conversation yer dad can give you a few years from now…'

James let that one hang in the air, and a comfortable silence stretched as he swung his legs back and forth on the giant stool. Eventually, his other great worry rose to the fore.

'Hagrid, did you see Lily got sorted into Slytherin?'

'Aye, I did indeed. A Potter in Slytherin! Never thought I'd live to see it. Brilliant, innit?!"

'Erm, is it?'

'Course it is! She came down and told me how excited she is firs' thing this morning.'

'Oh. It's just, you see, before we left for school, dad said we had to make sure to look out for each other this year. Now more than ever. I just don't know how I'm supposed to do that if she's in Slytherin.'

Hagrid's answering smile was warm, and the hand he laid on James' shoulder was certainly meant to be comforting, rather than the bone-jarring experience it was to a relatively tiny thirteen-year-old.

'I reckon little Lily is going to need a lot less lookin' after than you think, James. And I think if you try to push her, she'll bite back like a cornered Chimaera. If yer askin' me James, I'd let her be. Let sleeping dragons lie. Pick your battles, because sometimes, it's just not your fight to fight.'

* * *

For the thirty-seventh time that evening, Harry Potter wondered why he had agreed to be here. It had taken him most of the day to shake his now ever-present Steelheart tail. He was running late, but he could ill-afford a slip-up at this stage. Wind blasted along a deserted beach, casting handfuls of sand skittering across his shoes. Even at this time of year it was cold here, no wonder the inhabitants of the island were such a disagreeable lot.

A pregnant moon hung low and dirty in the sky far to the east, intermittently obscured by a lazy gathering of clouds scudding low across the horizon. The crash and roll of waves was a lulling, ever-present rhythm that he found himself getting lost in.

This job was dicey at best. Harry had begun to sense a tinge of desperation to his employer's requests of late. The risks were mounting. The cost of failure ever-increasing. But he had held his tongue thus far. Part of it was out of ignorance. He was being deliberately kept in the dark, and, as much as it pained him, he had pulled the same thing on his Aurors many a time when the situation required it. There was a nagging part of him that said he was making this desperation up entirely; that he was looking for a way out, a ticket to ascendancy, as it had been so long since he had worked _under_ anyone. He'd vowed to stop letting outside forces control the track of his life a long time ago now.

With a faint _pop_ a second figure appeared a few feet away. It had taken him longer to muster the strength to Apparate. Everything took him longer these days. Harry checked the pocket watch in his dark grey overcoat. Time was not on their side.

'C'mon,' Harry growled. The voice in which he spoke was foreign, and a little alarming to his ears. He stroked his newly-acquired stubble, and brushed a lock of dirty blond hair from his eyes. Absolute discretion was of the essence.

His companion fell in step beside him as they made their way up the gently sloping beach. Lights burned in the middle distance; they set their course towards them. His partner looked different again today, as was their arrangement. His wide brow and prominent widow's peak were exactly as agreed upon. The broad shoulders and long fingers were inch perfect, right down to the dirt under the nails. The body was stolen, and it was imitated to perfection, but that haunted sickly look in the eyes were entirely his own.

Reeds and grasses whipped back and forth in the breeze, and Harry turned the collar up on his coat. Loosened his wand within the holster in his sleeve. For a long time, neither spoke.

Finally, when they were almost within sight of the small village that had coalesced before them, Harry's companion cleared his throat.

'Thirty minutes; that's all I think I can manage. They're getting worse… the episodes. I- I don't want to be here if- _when_ one hits.'

Harry nodded gruffly, his irritating blonde hair falling down in front of his eyes. 'Aye, you and me both. Thirty minutes is all we need; show our faces, wave a wand, and make it all better.'

His companion smiled a yellow-toothed smile. 'Just like magic.'

They were spotted before they entered the dim light that illuminated a filthy spread of cobblestones attempting to pass off as a village square. A bell tolled from the tower of a lopsided, grimy church. As Harry stepped forward and traded starlight for the light of the single street lamp, he wrapped a cowl around the lower half of his face. He gripped the shoulder of his companion and tossed him forwards into the square, where he collapsed, his wand clattering on the chipped pavers.

The bell continued to ring out, deep, resounding peals that seemed far too grand from such a tinny structure. But still no figures were seen. Yawning shadows stretched at alleyways leading to the square, perfectly aligned cardinal and intercardinal. The single lamppost that was illuminating the square flickered, as if shuddering before the prospect of the imminent confrontation. Harry tightened the grip on his wand. Scuffling sounds reached him now from the darkness, all around. Footsteps.

Finally, figures began to resolve from the shadows. They shuffled in towards where Harry's companion had pushed himself to shaky feet. Each one was stooped, wrapped in rags, crone-like in appearance. They were rheumy-eyed and frail-limbed. The entire place smelled of death.

As they approached, their marred features were bathed in the dirty light, and Harry couldn't stop himself from wincing in disgust. Twisted and disfigured, great weeping weals and open sores blighted their visage. Blood- and pus-soaked rages trailed from them. In the low light it seemed their very skin was sloughing from their bones.

This part was difficult.

Harry drew his wand, mimicking the actions of his companion out in the square. The diseased figures clawed at his robes, grovelling, prostrate at his feet. Harry remained cloaked in shadows, visible only as a mysterious figure. The island's inhabitants weren't interested in him, however. He was just a faceless passer-by. It was the man in the square whom they sought. It was his face they knew.

A tense twenty minutes of some of the most complicated wandwork he had ever known ensued. Sweat beaded and then streamed down his forehead, plastering that blasted blonde hair over his eyes. His arms began to ache from exertion. Out in the square, one figure moved among many, issuing a series of comforting gestures and quiet, soothing words. _They believed, they really believed him._

As the minutes stretched on, he saw the time take its toll on his companion. His steps became more of a shuffle akin to the denizens of this haunted Isle, his face drew tight and his eyes glimmered with barely stifled pain. Another episode was approaching; their time was up.

The moment he saw the façade faltering, Harry leaped from the shadows. With a whip of his wand several of the figures were pushed backwards – as gently as he could manage. He grabbed his partner by the upper arm, and cast a final scowl at the pitiful mob lain before him. With a crack that split the night in two, they were gone. And only the wailing of the damned remained.

* * *

 _A/N: Hey all! Hope you enjoyed the little Harry section. It's something new I've been looking to add, along with a few other characters POV this book to mix things up a little. Let me know what you think! As always, your feedback is greatly appreciated,_

 _J_


	5. Lightning & Thunderheads

An entire classroom full of third year students yelped in unified alarm as instant darkness enveloped them. A few high pitched screams seemed muffled by the stifling blackness. James fumbled for his wand. A brilliant flare of argent light seemed to burn his eyes, and he pushed himself back from his desk, wand lowered at what he thought was its source. A glaring, purple afterimage refused to fade away.

The class slowly regained their wits, and a few scattered giggles burst forth as their sight returned.

James stood near the front of the class blinking stupidly, with his wand lowered at the chest of their –suddenly rather startled-looking – Professor of The Study of Ancient Runes.

'Ho now, young man,' Professor Fulmen Bolt chortled amicably. 'Let's not be too hasty with that thing. Just a little display for my grand entrance, nobody is out here trying to attack you!'

James' vision had returned enough to see the mouthful of startlingly white teeth that glinted his way as the Professor flashed him a smile. From behind him, he heard a few feminine sighs, and even a scattering of applause. Red-faced, James slunk down into his chair, and pocketed his wand.

Professor Bolt ran a hand through his untidy, bright yellow hair, and got another round of soft sighs. James crossed his arms sullenly. Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and a Fayalite Flare; that was all he'd done. It was a stupid trick for children. James didn't like this professor already.

'What a fop,' Clip mumbled.

James looked to the girls for further validation, but found Cassie, and even _Rain_ following the professor's movements as he paced pointlessly back and forth at the front of the room. He flashed winks and smiles at selected students. James was worried that those teeth were going to catch the sun and blind someone for real.

'The study of Ancient Runes!' Professor Bolt finally cried, slapping both palms onto his desk, and leaning forward conspiratorially. His eyes glinted in what was certainly supposed to be a menacing way. 'To study Ancient Runes is to look back through time itself, to dive down through a cross-section of wizarding development and advances in magic over the hundreds – nay, thousands – of years that we have operated.

'Civilisations within the Wizarding world come and go. Eras, kingdoms, cultures, all of these fade with time. They burn bright for years or centuries, but, like the candles that light our way thought the castle, they can only burn so long before their wick is used up. Their stories fade, their way of life and magic is forgotten, or worse; misremembered. Twisted and distorted by those who come after.

'But one thing that cannot be forged is their written word. Once a Rune is etched, if it is given even the barest hint of a magical signature, it shall not be dulled by the steady erosion of time. Thus, we may study the texts of these ancient civilisations, their foreign characters and hieroglyphs in order to not only learn about them, but about the very magic that they commanded.

'For the wand and the spoken spell have not been the norm through all of time. Even today, they are not ubiquitous. Long before the study of wandlore, and what we think of as modern magic, people manipulated the Magical Flux using the written word alone: The Rune. A more tedious and dangerous form of manipulation, perhaps, but by no means any less powerful. It is the custom of these Runes through time that we shall study – their use and misuse throughout history – with the aim of uncovering the powerful secrets that they hide from all but the keenest of observers.'

Monologue complete, Professor Bolt stood up and took a little bow. Half the class burst into applause. The other half shared identical confused glances. James was among the latter. Sunlight was slanting in through the windows, illuminating the professor's face, and the fine dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Dazzling smiles were fired off at the students with reckless abandon.

James was going to write Aunt Hermione a very strongly worded letter about coercing him into taking this class.

'Isn't he _brilliant,'_ Cassie breathed later that lesson, as they were poring over their books and attempting to identify key differences between Northern and Southern Nordic Runes.

'He's a loon!' James urged. He turned to Clip for support.

'Well, he _does_ seem to know what he's talking about…'

James threw his hands in the air at this fell betrayal.

'Ah yes, young Mister Potter with the twitchy wand-arm.'

Professor Bolt appeared behind James as if by Apparition. He felt a hand grip his shoulder firmly.

'What can I do for you, young man, you had a question?'

'Erm, no. I was just… translating.' James waved at his desk, where Cassie's already-completed sheet which he had been copying lay before him.

'Ah, excellent work! Let's get you up the front to detail the correct distinctions and translations to the class, shall we?'

Despite James' spluttering protests, he promptly found himself stood at the front of the class, chalk in hand, staring at a blackboard full of foreign Runes about which he knew absolutely nothing.

Ten minutes later, after he had somehow managed to imply through his shoddy translation that the Professor had done some rather unspeakable things with a Nundu, James slid into his chair, red-faced with embarrassment. He was disliking this professor more by the minute.

'You were reading them backwards, James Potter.' Rain cast James a sidelong glance that he deftly ducked away from. He focused on staring at the collar of her shirt, instead.

'Diagonally up from the left, that's what the book said,' he grumbled.

'Indeed, but the Runes are written backwards on the board. I know not whether it is from incompetence, or if the professor had hoped that you would notice.'

'So he _might_ be an idiot?' James latched on to that instantly.

'Perhaps, but I think not. He… perplexes me. I am uncertain about him, a feeling which I do not like. Do you ever, when you look at someone, just get a… an uneasy _feeling_ which overcomes you?'

 _As a matter of fact…_ James thought. But he kept that one to himself, for now.

James was a picture of relief when the class was _finally_ able to escape at lunch time. Even though he was forced to head straight to the library to get started on the unholy amount of homework Professor Bolt had just handed them. By this point, James would rather go a few rounds battling the Giant Squid than hang about in that classroom any longer.

He was surprised to find an equally exasperated Fred sitting across from him at their favourite table near the Flying section. James slumped into his seat, defeated, and he and Fred let out identical heavy sighs.

'Wanna trade classes?' They both asked at once.

'This Trelawney is a _nightmare-'_ Fred started.

Just as James burst out with, 'What sort of _Professor_ uses Weasley products-'

'She had us drink _litres_ of this awful tea-'

'-made me translate an _entire_ board-'

'-not a single bathroom in the whole tower!'

'And you should see the homework!' the two boys finished in unison once more.

'That was mildly impressive, James,' Cassie remarked from where she was already a good two paragraphs into her own. She looked up, smiling innocently. 'It's not _that_ bad. I mean, I can manage seventeen inches easily.'

'Seventeen inches?' Tristan queried, sliding into the seat opposite. 'No wonder you're smiling Miss Featherstone. Are you planning on introducing us, then? Where is the remarkable man?'

'Professor Bolt, he's just _brilliant,'_ Cassie replied, completely missing the beat.

James looked at Fred. Fred looked at Tristan. Tristan was looking at Cassie like she'd just grown an extra head.

'What-? Oh. _Ohhhhh._ Tristan, that's disgusting! Seventeen inches of parchment for _homework,_ you half-wit!'

'It was the smile that confused me. You see, any sane person wouldn't have looked half so happy. Your professor sounds almost as bad as Trelawny. She's awful-'

'We know!' chorused the entire table.

' _Shhhhhhh!'_ hissed Madam Cresswell, the Librarian.

Over the remainder of the period, James made what he would call a "brave" attempt at his homework. Cassie unabashedly called it "pathetic". He did, however, feel somewhat more productive than Fred, who spent the entire break running back and forth from the bathroom and achieved nothing more than drawing a rather unflattering picture of Professor Trelawney in the margins of his book.

The main reason for James' own lack of progress arrived a mere ten minutes into their session. It sauntered in wearing heels that likely weren't regulation, and a skirt of a length that certainly wasn't. It scattered a flock of first-years that were huddled around the best table in the room, giving any stragglers the pointy end of a Stinging Jinx for their troubles. It glided into its chair and gazed about the room with a distinct air of a Queen surveying her kingdom. _It_ was Odette Mansfield.

James cast a gloomy scowl in her direction. It made no difference; she was pointedly not looking his way. One of the harassed first-years was crying in a corner. Cat headed over to comfort her. James fumed to himself, deciding and subsequently backing down on getting up to give her a piece of his mind three separate times, before realising it wasn't going to happen. And for each minute that he dwelled on her in sullen silence, the fact that she didn't so much as glance his way grated even more.

The only reason he kept looking over, he told himself furiously, was that the sunlight glinting off of her multitude of silver necklaces kept glaring in his eye. That was all.

So it was that he was glad when Tristan elbowed him in the ribs toward the end of their lunch break. Anything to snap him out of the brooding cycle in which he had found himself ensnared.

'Mate, check it out.' Tristan gestured to the entrance of the library.

James turned his head and snickered as some poor Slytherin first-year was entering the library with bright pink hair.

'Gosh, that clashes _terribly_ with her robes,' Holly gasped.

'Bet she was trying to-'

But James didn't hear what Tristan thought she was trying to do, and his laughter dried up in his throat as he realised just who that sorry first-year was. _Lily._

In an instant he and Fred were on their feet, wands sliding deftly into their palms. Fred reached into his satchel bag and came out with something dark brown and spherical that emitted tiny puffs of smoke every few seconds.

Lily strode into the library as if nothing was the matter. Chin up, confident gait, for all the world nothing more than a serene princess strolling through a room of her subjects.

But the local Queen didn't take kindly to that.

'Nice hair, Potter,' Odette called from her table.

James shoved his chair back. The grating sound it made on the wood drew a handful of eyes to him. A rustle of whispers circulated the room, adding a quiet susurrus beneath the growing laughter.

' _Shhhhh!'_ hissed Madam Cresswell.

Lily paused. Her own little entourage squared off against Odette's.

'You should know, Mansfield,' Nerissa Sayre purred. 'What, with the amount of time you spend casting Colouring Charms on _your_ hair.'

Odette looked as if she'd been slapped. She leapt up from her seat and tossed her locks angrily. 'This is _natural,_ you bint!'

Wands were drawn, but James and Fred were in between the two groups in a flash. Without missing a beat, Holly flowed from her seated position to standing ready in the blink of an eye.

'James.' Odette spat his name like it left a sour taste in her mouth.

'Get out of the _way,_ James,' Lilly hissed from his other side.

James glared at Lily. Lily glared at James. Odette glared at them all. _Everyone_ eyed both Holly and Fred's smoking handful nervously.

'Leave her _alone_ ,' James growled through gritted teeth.

Odette simpered infuriatingly. 'Come now James. You're a Gryffindor, so I'll put it in terms you'll understand. This Flobberworm has insulted my _honour._ At least give me the chance to defend it.'

Nerissa flashed her teeth in something that may have passed as a smile.

'Back off, Mansfield,' Holly growled menacingly. She stepped up alongside James. 'If you so much as move, I'll Hex you all the way through to next Monday.'

Odette's only response was to quirk a single sculpted eyebrow. Her eyes flickered between Holly and James. 'Well now, _this_ is an interesting development. I suppose a leech such as yourself would have to cast her lot in with the brightest spark and hope for the best. Never mind, perhaps you _could_ beat me with wand in hand, Brooks, but I've other ways of destroying you.'

Odette's free hand shot out, cupping James' cheek for the briefest of moments. With that, she was gone, her group of friends hastily packing their bags and hurrying out the door without a backward glance.

James rounded on Lily. 'Who did this to you? Was it her?'

'It's none of your concern, James.' She was doing an excellent job of ignoring him altogether, setting about making herself comfortable in the chair Odette had just vacated.

'Of course it is! Tell me and I'll Hex them so hard they won't even remember which house they're in.'

'Er James,' Fred hissed in his ear. The object in his hand was starting to smoke a _lot._

'If you must know, it was I,' Nerissa drawled. She sounded almost bored.

' _You?!'_ Fred and James spluttered in unison.

Both of their wands sprang to level at her chest. She cast Lily a meaningful look, gave a tiny shrug, and continued to unpack her bags.

Fred was taking his lead from James, poised on a knife-edge, ready to act. But even _he_ was starting to eye his package a little nervously now.

'James,' Holly insisted. 'I think we should leave it.' She was giving him a very level look. James distinctly got the impression that everyone else here knew what was going on besides himself. And maybe Fred. Damned Slytherins.

'Not bloody likely,' James growled in defiance.

'And you will allow this?' Nerissa asked Lilly coolly. She was eyeing the wands like one would a loose shoelace. The mildest inconvenience.

'James, just _leave,'_ she urged. Her face was set in that stubborn cast she had inherited from her mother. Brows knitted and lips pursed. It was terrifying on Ginny. Slightly less so on this miniature, pink-haired version.

' _James,'_ Fred's voice cracked.

'Fine!' he snapped, throwing his hands in the air. He skewered Nerissa with a lingering scowl that she returned with icy indifference, and stomped off with Fred and Holly in tow.

Back at their table, James began hastily stuffing his papers into his book bag.

'Did you?' he snapped in Fred's direction, without looking up.

'Naturally.'

Fred's hands were empty, the smoking little bundle of terror was gone. If those girls wanted to play Slytherin games, then let them. James' stare had held Nerissa's attention _just_ long enough for Fred to enact a bit of sleight-of-hand. Whatever that thing had been, it was going to give Nerissa Sayre a nasty little surprise the next time she opened her bag. James wasn't planning to be on the same floor when _that_ happened.

He stormed off ahead of the group on their way to double Defence Against the Dark arts with Slytherin. He wanted to be alone for a moment to have some time to brood. He was mad at Nerissa, and Lily, and Odette, and even Holly – _especially_ Holly – for making him feel stupid with their little Slytherin intricacies. The way they still stood up for each other against him, despite his being almost certain that all three disliked each other intensely.

'James, wait up,' Holly jogged to catch up to him. _Great_.

The rug that ran the length of the corridor that they were walking was thick and plush coloured a rich royal red. James made a point of studying it overtly, giving Holly little more than suspicious sidelong glances. She was sucking on the end of her braid fiercely, a tiny frown furrowing her brow.

'I'm sorry I interfered,' she finally said. 'Or _didn't_ interfere, rather. It's just- If we did, then Lily could be at risk of- of turning out like me.'

Despite himself, James looked up at her. Her pale grey eyes were swimming in the afternoon light. Holly had been an outcast since their first year, when the Lenders – a group of cruel seventh-years with an interest in nothing but Galleons – had framed her for a crime she had not committed. In response to something James had done to garner their ire. Something unsettling squirmed in the bottom of James' stomach. It only served to make him angry _and_ uncomfortable.

'And if we _don't,_ then she's likely to have blue hair tomorrow. Or a pink robe. Or three eyes. I spent half of last year trying to get the school to stop bullying Al. By Godric, if someone is doing that to Lily I'll tear this castle down to get at them. And _any_ who get in the way.'

He hadn't noticed, but he'd stopped walking, facing Holly directly. His hands were clenched into fists, so tightly that the nails dug into his palms. His chest was heaving; he felt short of breath despite the lack of exertion. Whatever it was that was in his eyes caused Holly to shrink back a little.

The others lingered back, aware that this was a private conversation.

'James, _please,'_ she pleaded. 'Listen to me. Lily is a big deal, right? She's a Potter. And the first one in Slytherin in… who knows how long, maybe forever. But so is Nerissa. Her family is old. Old money, old blood. _Pure_ blood. Think sacred twenty-eight. And on the American side, they are just as storied. So _she_ is a big deal, too.

'There are forty first-year Slytherins this year. About twenty of them are girls. There isn't room for two _big deals_ in that small of a group. Someone has to come out on top. And that someone will have to prove to the rest of their year that they are the smartest, the quickest, the meanest and the most cunning. Having your older brother come along and Hex the other into smithereens is _none_ of those things, James. Do you understand?'

'Yea, I understand just fine. My little sister gets lumped into a house she doesn't belong in, and all of a sudden some uppity half-American princess wants to _attack_ her for it? That's not fair, that's not Lily-'

'James, Lily put something in Nerissa's bed on the first night that made her break out in these angry purple hives that wouldn't go away. She didn't get a wink of sleep all night.'

 _Good._ James thought. But he didn't show it. He was still mad at the lot of them. And, if he was entirely honest, mad with himself for not being able to stop Lily getting put into damned Slytherin house. He marched off to Defence by himself, leaving Holly standing helpless in his wake.

His angry fast-march up through the castle meant that James was the first to arrive to the classroom. The only other occupant was Professor Meadows. She was leaning casually against her desk, eating an apple. Her wooden leg was stretched out before her, bathed golden in the light that streamed down from the high windows. James was still too mad to so much as acknowledge her presence. Her bright pink lips worked as she chewed methodically. A breeze drifted in from an open window and teased her yellow-blonde hair, which sat in artful disarray around her shoulders. Faint birdsong filled the room beneath James' heavy footfalls.

He continued his stomping march all the way up to the front of the classroom and threw himself down into a seat, glowering directly ahead, right about at Professor Meadows' midriff.

Without warning, she swooped down, and her face filled his vision. She was wearing a frown to mirror his own. Lips pursed in a thin line, brow knitted heavily. But a twinkle of mirth danced within those eyes. She took a bite of her apple, otherwise unmoving. Unblinking. James was beginning to feel a little ridiculous.

'You,' she finally said, still chewing. 'Look like someone stole your last treacle tart. And then ate it right in front of you. Slowly. What could possibly have James Potter so upset on the fourth day of school?'

James shrugged noncommittally.

'You sulk like the best of them James. Nevertheless, I can hazard a guess. That hair was hard to miss. Let me tell you something I was told, not long after _this._ ' She gestured down at her wooden leg. 'The world is full of injustices, James. Real and imagined. If you spend your life trying to right them all, you will end up nothing more than a bitter and twisted old man, jaded by all that you have seen, all that you have fought. Every failure will echo through your waking hours, and slide into bed with you each night to torment you in your dreams. We cannot fight every fight for every person; hell, we can't even fight every fight for ourselves.

'And about the whole Slytherin thing; I can tell it's getting you down, I can read your pouty little face like a book Potter. Things aren't always _good,_ or _bad_ , as we see them; sometimes they just _are._ It's what we make of them that defines their real legacy.

'Maybe, this time around it just isn't worth fighting. Maybe, in the end, it's not so bad after all. Have a think about it. In the meantime, cheer up, and eat this.'

She tossed him a second apple with a wink, and spun back to the front of the room as the rest of the class began to enter.

'Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to our first Defence Against the Dark Arts double period. I thought we'd try for a bit of a practical approach today, in light of recent developments. Who here is thinking of entering the Duelling tournament at this years' Tri Wizard competition?'

Nearly seventy Gryffindor and Slytherin hands shot into the air at once.

'Excellent. That's what I like to see. Defence Against the Dark Arts is, at its core a practical discipline. If you are ever in a situation where you are required to face down Dark Magic, it will not likely be one where you are given an hour to answer thirty questions to make the bad man go away. If anyone has so much as glanced at an issue of the _Prophet_ this summer, they will have seen that the Desecrator has been more active than ever, and all across the globe. Merlin forbid, but there may come a time when you are forced to _act_ on some of the lessons you have learned in this very classroom. Thus, we will spend our time practising _acting._ Fortune favours the prepared, and all of that.

'Now, then. Who spent time over the summer memorizing the spells that I listed for you?'

A scattering of hands shot up.

'Good. You're going to need them. I thought today we'd start off with a spot of Duelling, to warm everybody up.'

That brought forth a round of excited chattering. Under direction, the class stood up, and gathered at the back of the room. With a wave of her wand, Professor Meadows cleared the desks and chairs away from the centre of the room. They marched obediently to form a sort of corridor, several metres wide, down the length of the room. All of the detritus that had been swept up in the Professor's spell was now clamouring to form an orderly barricade between the arena and the students. James watched in amusement as a table landed a vicious kick at a full-length mirror, sending a shower of glass shards tinkering to the floor.

'Bloody desks. Alright, Miss Brooks, you can start us off. Who'd like to square off against her?'

The entire class took a _very_ large step away from Holly. It seemed her reputation preceded her.

'I'll do it.' James growled. If he had believed even half of what Tristan had said about Holly at the end of last year, he might not have been so eager. But he had a wellspring of pent-up rage bubbling beneath the surface, and Holly was the perfect release.

The pair entered the cleared space together. Holly flashed an apologetic smile.

'Mister Potter. Miss Brooks.' Professor Meadows nodded at them both. They made their way to opposite ends of the arena, and bowed to one another. Holly was looking a little uncomfortable.

Professor Meadows' rules for beginning a duel were that the participants, once at their respective ends, must turn and face away from one another, and raise their non-wand hand in the air. As soon as both hands were down, she would signal them to begin. James' hand climbed into the air and stood, steady. He took a long, calming breath and closed his eyes. Counted to five. Release.

The students all clamoured nervously around the edges of the makeshift arena. The clutter had finally assumed a modicum of order, and a wall of desk-fronts, books, chairs, mirrors and all manner of bric-a-brac stared inwards at James at about waist height.

Among the crowd, James spied Fred's eager face. Fred shot him a double thumbs-up.

The wait stretched. James' hand remained in the air. He had no idea if Holly had signalled her readiness or not. He had to be prepared to act the moment his hand moved. A tense buzz filled the room from the onlookers. James tightened the grip on his wand, and lowered his hand.

The instant he shifted, a deep gong-like sound reverberated around the room, signalling the beginning of the duel. He ducked and rolled low to his left, pivoting as he rose to a crouch and sensing, rather than seeing, the sizzling jet of a spell fly past his left shoulder. He countered rapidly with a Trip Jinx aimed at Holly's ankles, and a Stinging Hex which he ricocheted off of a nearby mirror, sending an array of chaotic reflections bouncing around the room.

Holly dodged them all seamlessly. She managed to turn the act of leaping over his Tripper into ducking between two reflections of his Stinging Hex into a flamboyant pirouette that finished with her wand levelled at James' chest.

' _Everte Statum!'_ she cried, and James, too mesmerised by the gracile flow of her movements, received the sensation of a fully-grown Hippogriff kicking him square in the chest.

He flew backwards a good six feet, keeping a desperate grip on his wand. A flash of purple zinged past his periphery, and a cascade of stars exploded in his vision as he crashed into the unforgiving flagstones. Instinct told him to roll, and roll fast. Small explosions near his head told him he must have _just_ been ahead of Holly's repeated spells. As he collided with the barrier to their arena, James threw up a desperate _Imminuum_ against the onslaught and clawed up the stack of desks to his feet.

Forgoing magic entirely, he grabbed hold of the first thing his hands could reach, and tossed it in Holly's direction. It was an inkwell, and when her most recent volley of spells collided with it in mid-air, it plastered her, and anyone nearby, with a thick coating of midnight ink.

Spectators yelped in alarm. Holly clawed desperately at her face, whipping up a shaky shield as James forced her back with spell after spell, capitalising on the swing in momentum.

' _Tenebrus!'_ he roared, and a thick streamer of dark, cloying smog erupted from his wand, leaping out to further cloud Holly's vision. He gouged a thick chunk of the flagstones free with a well-placed _Defodio,_ and fouled Holly's footing, causing her to stumble momentarily. Sensing victory, he lined up for a Disarming Charm, angling it to make the tiniest gap beneath her shield.

' _Expelli-'_

' _Finite Incantatem!'_

The smog dissipated with a faint _pop._ The force of Holly's spell sent James staggering, and his own died upon his lips. He righted himself just in time to block an angry jet of orange light, and sidestep a Full Body-bind. The students in green – and most of the females in the vicinity – let out a triumphant cheer, and James cursed inwardly.

' _Incendio!'_ a lick of flame shot out from his wand, but was met by a wall of water, crashing down around Holly's feet like the sea itself. A summoned rope leapt hungrily for James' torso, but he slashed it with a violent Cutter. The follow-through brought a kiss of red to Holly's ink-stained cheek.

The onlookers gasped in alarm.

James had the distinct feeling he was just buying time now. He had had his opportunity – his one stroke of dumb luck that could have won it – and failed to capitalise. He ought to have listened a little more closely to Tristan; Holly was clearly the better duellist. Every spell he sent her way was sidestepped with ease. With _grace,_ even. The way she moved, stepping in and out of the dappled light filtering through the stained windows, it was as if James was watching a collection of shadows, rather than a real person. She seemed to flow, rather than step, to glide back and forth across the duelling ground, making the few yards widthways seem like an entire quidditch pitch. Spinning her robes around her in a momentary midnight flare, and always, _always_ punctuating every fluid movement with a flurry of pinpoint-accurate wandwork.

Sweat was beginning to stream from James now. And his frustration was growing. He grabbed a nearby chair, and banished it directly at Holly. Her magic broke it up into a cascade of splinters, some few of them gouging the exposed ivory flesh of her forearms. She hissed, almost cat-like and drew back her wand arm, right as James roared, _'Bombarda!'_

Their spells collided, flinging both students bodily through the air, and several tables and chairs rocketing off into the crowd of onlookers. A few screams punctured through the ringing in James' ears, as he and Holly leapt to their feet together, charging with wordless snarls.

' _Glacius!'_ James shot at the puddle of standing water, left over from Holly's deflection of his earlier _Incendio_ spell. It froze instantly into a glassy, icy puddle.

But James had mistimed it entirely. He had lost Holly as she had glided in and out of a particularly deep set of shadows. He'd misjudged her speed altogether, and she was still several steps back from his would-be trap. It would be a cinch for her to banish it, or leap right over it, and now his wand-arm was out of position to defend. He could see Holly preparing for the counter, drawing up her own wand to attack.

And then she stepped on the puddle. She'd been home free, she'd had James beat, and she went and stepped on the puddle. Instantly, her feet whipped out from beneath her. James was still trying to process what exactly was happening, as her arms flew up in the air, and she landed on her back with a heavy _crack._ Her wand shot free from her grip, spinning perfectly end-over-end to clatter to the floor several feet away, and roll beneath the desks.

The whole room was filled with a stunned silence. Holly groaned in pain, and the deep gong-like sound rumbled about the room once more. 'Duel to Potter,' Professor Meadows conceded.

Instantly, the barriers of their enclosure collapsed inwards, as the majority of Gryffindor house rushed to congratulate him.

'Onya, James!' Fred called.

'Knew you'd do it,' Clip agreed.

'Oh you're _so_ brave,' Leah Ridley fawned. 'Can't you teach me to duel like that?'

James smiled through all of it, and accepted the praise heaped his way, but deep down, he raged. He _knew_ Holly had seen that puddle. He _knew_ she didn't need to take that extra step. She'd done it on purpose, he was certain of it. And it made him furious.

James barely spoke to Holly for the rest of the lesson, or any of the next day. She had caved as soon as he pressed her on the issue; the way that she chewed on the end of her braid instead of merely sucking on it was a dead giveaway that she was lying. Some Slytherin. She'd begged and pleaded and apologised. Tried to tell him that she felt bad about stepping in with the Lily ordeal, or that she was trying to cheer him up, or apologise. At one point she'd even cried. At no point did she get through to James.

Late that Friday evening, he was venting all of his frustrations to Cat, in the Gryffindor common room. They were sat in two plush armchairs, facing a particularly bland section of the castle wall not six inches from either of their faces. She had insisted that it was her new favourite spot.

'So let me get this straight,' Cat said, blinking owlishly. She had been resting her forehead against the cool brick, and its dimpled pattern had impressed itself into the skin of her face. 'You are currently upset at Holly.'

'Yes.'

'Because she purposely let you beat her in a duel.'

'Yes.'

'Because she did it without asking you first.'

'That's what I said already!'

'Because she acted outside your control to influence a situation that was important to you?'

'Er, I _suppose_ you could put it like that.'

'A situation that you were perfectly capable of handling yourself?'

'Yes.'

'Even though the odds were against you, perhaps?'

' _Yes!'_

'Exactly like Lily starting out in Slytherin?'

'Ye- wait, _what?'_

James spluttered and stammered and gestured, but, try as he might, he couldn't come up with a valid response. In some ways, Holly's rigging of their duel had been _exactly_ like that. She'd made the decision that _she_ thought he would like, and just gone and done it. It felt horrible, to have someone else meddling, trying to influence his own actions, his own life. He frowned sulkily at Cat.

'Why do you always have to be right?'

'Professor Trelawney calls it the curse of the Inner Eye. Fred mostly calls it annoying.

'I suppose I owe a few apologies.'

'Perhaps, but that can wait. They're here.'

'They're here? Who?' James looked around the common room wildly.

A group of fifth-years came tumbling in through the portrait hole, short of breath.

'Everyone, get down here!' one yelled with excitement. 'They've arrived!'

'Who, dammit?' James yelled.

'The other schools!'


	6. Burning Questions & A Heart's Desire

'Look there!'

'It's _flying!_ '

'It's a dragon!'

James craned his neck above the milling press of students gathered in the courtyard. All were peering eagerly out towards the Forbidden Forest. Hands gestured, and a rolling wave of exclamations rose up as all began to make out the approaching figure. James elbowed and sidestepped his way through a sea of black robes. Cat, irritatingly still a full head-and-shoulders taller than James, was having no trouble seeing, and she relayed the spectacle to him with somewhat dubious veracity.

'Ooh, it might be a dragon. Mummy says they've been experimenting with new breeds in France. The Dirigeant wants a French national breed, she says. I think I'd like a dragon. Just a small one, though. I'd name her Ethel.'

A light appeared before James – a gap in the press – and he edged his way towards it. More than a few toes were left trampled in his eager dash for freedom.

Bursting clear at last, James drew in a deep lungful of fresh air. Finally free from the close, dank odours of sweat and excitement pouring off of the closely-packed throng of students. He clambered up to a makeshift seat upon a raised archway, and peered eagerly out at the sweeping expanse of the Forest before him.

 _Something_ was approaching; that much was certain. The dying light of the evening threw great, enshrouding shadows over much of the valley. The object weaved sinuously between them, barely skimming the tops of the trees. Between the low light, and the face-full of Cat's hair James received as she climbed up to join him, he was none the wiser as to what exactly it was.

With a resounding _boom_ that shook loose a swarm of birds from their perches, an array of blue-and-gold sparks began to spill forth from the rear of the object, as it arced up high above the trees, framing itself against the setting sun. The cloudy sky was lit in tatters of bruised purples and ribbons of molten red. Escorted by an entourage of a thousand birds, and trailing brilliant streamers of blue and gold, James joined in with a thousand other students as they gasped at the beauty of what they now all saw was a carriage, pulled by no fewer than a dozen giant, winged horses.

'Bloody hell,' James breathed in awe.

'Oh, I was really hoping for a dragon. I'll miss you Ethel.' Cat was looking a little crestfallen.

James had to crane his neck as the carriage swooped low over the grounds, down to a prepared strip of grass, where a flustered Hagrid had to make a last-minute dive to avoid being run clean over. Sirius barked gleefully, tearing off after the horses as if it were a giant game of tag.

The thing James was most anxious to witness, however, was the students. As the carriage pulled up, and the door swung open, a thin beam of warm light tumbled out onto the lawn. No sooner had the door opened, than a pair of figures appeared within it, striding confidently down the step. Another followed immediately behind, without missing a beat, and Hogwarts was momentarily mesmerized as a flood of students clad in sky blue spilled forth in perfect order, arraying themselves in artful rows of impressive precision.

From this distance, the figures were little taller than James' fingernail, their features – even their genders – were obscured, but as one, the students peered, transfixed. It was as if an exotic creature was being paraded before them, and James watched it preen and strut, flashing bright feathers with its charismatic entrance, and flexing muscles with its knife-edge order and precision.

'I've always wanted to be a sailor.' Cat mused out of the blue.

'Huh?' James countered, intelligently.

'Do you think I'd make a good pirate?'

Instead of answering, he followed Cat's line of sight, to see a small patch way out on the Lake beginning to froth and bubble. Instinct raised a jab of panic, and James' hand flashed to his wand. In the space between two heartbeats, he'd drawn and was ready to leap back towards safety, but a steadying hand from Cat eased him back into his seat.

'Not this time James,' she whispered soothingly, and gestured, a calm smile on her face.

Something was beginning to take shape out there, rising above the waves in a hiss of froth and spume that could be heard in spite of the distance. A long, slender pole – a mast – complete with spider-webs of rigging and clinging to a lank, furled sail. James couldn't stop his jaw from dropping as a gigantic ship began to take shape.

Lit now by the low, full moon now almost as much as the setting sun, the figure took on a spectral cast in the pallid half-light. Two, then three full decks broached the surface, sending cascades of glimmering water crashing down to the frothing surface of the Lake. The behemoth righted itself slowly, still shedding streams of water over the gunwales. It brought itself around to face the castle in a slow, lumbering arc, with all the urgency of a mountain eroding.

It paused, sizing up the castle and the gathered students like a crouched predator. James felt his heart quicken, as the moment began to swell with a tense sort of dread. He jumped in fright as a splash sounded – the anchor dropping – and with a barely-audible _whoosh_ , the rigging snapped free of the sail and it dropped, filling the night air with the rushing of unfurling canvas.

The day's last gasp of sunlight illuminated the twin-headed golden eagle, as if it were carved from the very metal itself. The blood-red stag's-head, in stark contrast, was cloaked in shadow, and seemed to draw the light into it. Was it a reflection of the water, or were those fiery orbs within the skull's eyes really glowing with a menacing heat? James was locked into its abyssal gaze, and couldn't look away.

Despite the fact that the night was mild, and there wasn't so much as a breeze to be seen, James shivered.

Back inside, and the Hogwarts students waited eagerly for their foreign counterparts to join them at the House tables for dinner.

'How awesome was that ship?' James exclaimed to Fred, who was eying the empty platters before them impatiently.

'Say, how many people do you think it takes to sail that thing?' he asked in a hushed voice.

'There's really only one way to find out,' James countered, returning Fred's sly grin with interest.

A flicker of movement at the doorway, and a thousand heads whipped around in anxious unison.

A wave of whispers radiated out from those nearest the entrance, and suddenly a pair of figures appeared, clad in the blue-and-gold of Beauxbatons Academy. They strode confidently up the gap between house tables, and were followed instantly by another pair, continuing thus.

Each pair was a young witch and a young wizard. Each pair walked in perfect time with the next, and each kept their eyes set directly ahead, not once dallying to so much as glance in the other students' direction.

James watched, impressed by the flow of cerulean blue, as it trickled past them and pooled at the front of the room. Each student wore their uniform to perfection. Immaculately-pressed blazers showed not a single crease or fold. The gold piping at cuff and collar gleamed in the dancing candlelight. Silken shirts for the boys, blouses for the girls, were without a single crease, and glistened in an almost sheer manner. A golden kerchief was tied at every throat, and it sat exactly alike on all of them.

At the back of the file, a small commotion caught James' attention. A figure had broken free from the procession.

'Blimey,' Fred breathed. 'I'd forgot he was coming here.'

'Who?' James hissed

'Clavet. Loyal Clavet, the French wonder-boy Seeker. I'd forgot he's only fourth year.'

The name was awfully familiar, and as James craned his neck to see the young man in question, his heart sunk as he remembered why.

Clavet was making his way over to the Slytherin table, where an incredibly smug-looking Odette Mansfield was preening herself in anticipation. He leaned in to plant a quick peck on her cheek that she turned into something a touch more passionate. A chorus of sighs emanated from the females around the room. Fred wolf-whistled impressively, and finally the pair broke it off. A thousand eyes were on Loyal Clavet as he sauntered back to his place in the otherwise-perfect queue.

No sooner had Beauxbatons regained order, than the students of Durmstrang Institute made themselves known.

A huge thunderclap sounded throughout the Hall. Hands shot to ears, and for a moment, a great swooping shadow dimmed the light of every candle. When they sputtered back to life once more, the students of Durmstrang were halfway to the Staff table already.

'How'd they get there?' Clip hissed.

In contrast to Beauxbatons bright, almost garish, uniform, the Durmstrang students wore subdued shades of blacks and browns. Subtle red and silver lining picked out symbols marching up their sleeves and embroidered onto the breasts.

But that was far from where the differences ended. Where Beauxbatons had flowed through the room like they possessed a single mind, Durmstrang barely looked like they were all from the same school, striding forth piecemeal and in several groups. A cluster of burly-looking students led the way, with twitchy hands and glowering stares that they doled out left and right around them. They wore dark oiled overcoats that hung below their knees, and looked like they might be able to scrounge a single O.W.L passing grade between them.

Next was a group of rangy-looking students. Boys and girls of a height similar to Cat. But instead of being all elbows and knees, they strode with a slender grace, and peered out with open curiosity, and the odd genuine smile.

The group that followed was, curiously, absolutely saturated from head-to-toe. They limped and slouched and slopped their way up the hall, leaving a mud-streaked wet swath in their wake. Their uniform barely resembled that of their counterparts, insofar as they were _mostly_ wearing something dark. One had what James swore was an upside-down pot on his head. That one reached up curiously to prod at one of the floating candles, causing it to sputter out in what James could only describe as fright.

Once again, a wave of shadow rolled outwards from the point of contact, and all of a sudden there was a _fourth_ group of Durmstrang students. This group was fewest in number by far, and where their fellow students had been adorned in shades of brown or grey, they wore only black. Their clothing was light and billowy, akin to the silks favoured by Beauxbatons, and they prowled, more than walked up the aisle to join their comrades.

Their Professor followed last of all. A surprisingly young man with dark hair and heavy brows. He looked almost disinterested in the whole affair, until he locked eyes with the Headmistress and cracked a familiar smile. James instantly got that uneasy feeling all over again.

'Welcome, to our friends and colleagues from abroad!' Galatea Renshaw strode to the podium, doling out warm smiles to the newcomers as she went. 'To have over a hundred young students from each of your schools is a great honour, and speaks of the strong ties between our great Institutions.

'I am certain that you will be tired from travel, and thus I will endeavour not to keep you. The Tri-Wizard Tournament bears a rich tradition dating back to the thirteenth century. It is a competition of great merit, and has acted as the vessel to ascend many a great witch or wizard to the halls of eternal glory. Because of it, our schools have formed a bond like no others today. We consider you our magical brothers and sisters. But I believe we can do more.

'With the recent additions of age limitations added to the Tournament, I challenged our Ministry to come up with a way to include the younger students. After all, I believe that in order to nurture the best, most powerful witches and wizards, we must test them from a young age. And so, throughout the year, you will all have the honour of competing, both within the classroom and without, in the inaugural Junior Tri-Wizard Competition for All-round Magical Excellence!'

It hardly rolled off the tongue, but James eagerly joined in the raucous applause, and tossed his hat in the air with the rest of Gryffindor table.

'If eternal glory is what awaits the winner,' Renshaw continued, 'think then, on what awaits the very first witch or wizard to be crowned thus. Your names shall be exalted above all predecessors. Your feats, legend. You shall be nigh on the Patron Saint of these games, should you be the first to hold aloft the trophy. Work hard, and it shall be yours for the taking.'

The room erupted once more, with a wealth of cheers and banging of tables. The Beauxbatons students clapped politely. Pot-head at Durmstrang danced a little jig.

'Now please, guests, make yourselves at home. You shall have a week to accustom yourselves to your new surroundings before the tournament begins. Which shall occur immediately following the Welcoming Ball, of course.'

With that, Headmistress Renshaw flicked her wrists, and the teachers oversaw the dispersion of their respective students among the House tables. But James barely registered any of this.

'Did she say _ball?'_ he shot at Fred.

'It sure sounded like it.'

'As in, like, a _ball?'_ Clip asked, helpfully.

'With dancing?'

'With _girls?'_ James hissed.

The three boys shared a very meaningful look. James was beginning to get a whirling uncomfortable sensation spinning around in the pit of his stomach.

The students came to sit at their table, but it hardly felt to James like they were sharing the meal. The Beauxbatons group clustered in a single, tight-knit bunch. Interacting with the others around the fringes only when was absolutely necessary. Durmstrang assimilated entirely, to the point where James could barely tell them apart from their Hogwarts counterparts. They struck up polite, if reserved, conversation. The leather-jacket-wearers mostly communicated in grunts, but all wore their exotic intrigue like another layer of clothing.

These students were supposed to be the same age as James, some younger, even, but he couldn't help but feel inferior in their presence, what with the cool sophistication of Beauxbatons or the enigmatic chaos of Durmstrang. It was as if they were at least a handful of years James' senior.

He watched pot-head attempting to balance a plate of fruit salad on Cat's head and smiled to himself. Well, maybe not _all_ of them.

Tristan called an emergency meeting following dinner, and the four boys gathered in a cramped broomstick cupboard just off of the Entrance Hall. In the tiny space, James had the distinct pleasure of two elbows in his ribs, a boot on his little toe, and the pungent aroma of the breath of someone who had eaten something far too garlicky for dinner. The light of his wand – jammed into his side as it was – did far more to light up their feet than their faces, and so they were all stuck squinting at each other in the darkness from no more than a few inches away.

'Now, I'm sure you all know why I've gathered you here,' Tristan began.

'You couldn't have picked a bigger closet?' Fred growled. It was _definitely_ Fred who had been into the garlic.

'Desperate times. So unless any of you were asleep in your pumpkin pasties, you're all aware we are facing the prospect of a Ball.' James joined in his companions' collective shudder.

'Dad says Harry faced down a Dragon when he did the Tournament. Why can't we just do that?' Fred grumbled.

'You don't reckon there are any Atlanteans left over?' James asked. 'Think I'd step into the ring with one of them before I'd step onto a _dancefloor.'_

'Come on, guys,' Clip urged. 'It can't be all that bad.' Credit to him, James thought. He was making a good show of staying positive. Although the wavering of his voice betraying the underlying fear that they all felt.

'You all know what the answer to this is,' Tristan said firmly. 'We need to get that book back.'

'No way.'

'Nuh-uh.'

'Are you _insane?'_

'What?' he asked, defensively. 'It's our only chance. I'm adamant I saw at least a page on asking them, and there was an entire _chapter_ on dancing. I'd have skipped straight to that if I'd known how desperately we'd need it.'

'Were you not present on the train?' James asked, incredulous. 'I'm not even sure if half of the seventh years know those spells the girls used. At the very least, I'd like to be able to walk to this dance, not be carried to it in a matchbox.'

'Agreed,' Fred hastened to add. 'I once had an angry Steelheart chase me half way across the seventh floor. I was less scared _then,_ than I was of those girls. I'm out.'

'Me too,' Clip chimed in. 'I mean, all we have to do is ask one. We don't actually _have_ to even dance. It can't be that hard.'

'First of all, you're a bunch of cowards,' Tristan growled. 'But more importantly, Clip, you sound like you have someone in mind?'

'Well, I mean…'

'Who is it?' the entire room chorused.

'You know that Hufflepuff, Alannis McClellan?'

'The bald bloke in fourth year?'

' _No!_ Fred you idiot. The short one with brown hair.'

'Wait a minute,' Tristan said. 'The one that took Emry Sameer behind the greenhouse in second year?'

'Erm, well…'

'The same one who has kissed almost every boy in Ravenclaw?'

'Not _every-'_

'Clip, mate. You're a smart bloke. Has it not occurred to you that she's got a bit of a type?'

'She says it's different with us!'

'C'mon mate,' Fred offered diplomatically. 'She's got a thing for getting the smart kids all hot under their collar and ditching them soon as they get attached. Even I can see she's got issues.'

'Just because the lot of you are too chicken-'

'We get that book back and we won't have a thing to worry about.'

' _No!_ ' the three boys could at least agree on that.

'Fine,' Tristan snapped, shoving the door to the cupboard open. 'If you three aren't going to help me, then I'll free the Sacred Text myself. I will be the Chosen One.'

With that, he stalked off in the direction of the basement, and the Hufflepuff Common Room.

'And don't come asking me for advice on how to ask a girl, either,' Clip added, making it his turn to storm off. 'Never mind that four of our best friends are, wait for it… _girls!'_

With that, he was gone up the stairs, two at a time. James and Fred shared a glance, before bursting out laughing. Ask one of the girls? _Their_ girls? Not bloody likely! They were their _friends._ That just wasn't normal, was it?

As if both boys had been struck by the very same thought, their laughter died off to echo mockingly around the hall.

Wasn't it? James could hardly imagine walking up to Cassie and asking her on a _date._ That just wasn't right. Although, the way Holly had moved with such grace in their duel… He shook the traitorous thought from his head, blaming it on the Butterbeer he had had in place of dessert. He needed his bed, and the numbing release of a long night's sleep.

The looming shadow of the impending ball, however, could not be put to rest so easily. It was the subject on everybody's lips at breakfast the next morning.

'Did you hear Viola Greengrass has a date already?'

'Caspar Helstrom is getting new dress robes flown in from _Italy.'_

'I saw Tansy McKendrick crying in the second floor bathroom.'

'Hex me.' James muttered, sliding in to a seat opposite Cat at the breakfast table. He yelped in alarm as Cat had actually drawn her wand and seemed to be chewing on just what spell to send his way.

'Oh, you weren't serious?'

'Just tell me you won't sit here and gossip about who you want to take to the damn ball all morning. That's all anyone seems to want to talk about.'

'Oh no, that's fine. I already know who I'm going with.'

'You _what?'_ James spluttered, choking on a rasher of bacon.

'It's bloody Pot-Head,' Fred grumbled.

'Hello!'

The entire group leapt backwards in shock, as before them, the very individual whom they had just mentioned appeared on their plates. Served up as if he were a stack of toast.

'Merlin's dick in a box!' Fred provided. A sopping patch of juice was slowly spreading down his front, where he had spilled it in fright.

The student known only as Pot-Head, extracted his foot from a jug of milk, and slid off of the table in a cascade of cornflakes and condiments.

'Hello!' he said again. He looked positively chipper.

'Erm… hi. Where'd you come from?'

Pot-Head gestured down at the floor. 'Kitchen.'

'Ooh, you got the house elves to send you up?' Cat asked gleefully.

Pot-Head nodded a vigorous affirmative.

'Let's go do it together! I want to show up in somebodies oatmeal!'

And with that, the pair disappeared out the door, leaving Fred and James dumbfounded in their wake.

'I'm not sure what confuses me more,' Fred finally admitted. 'That Cat is going on a date, or that there is someone out there more mental than she is.'

Later that morning, and elbow-deep in a terracotta pot that appeared outwardly no bigger than James' palm, the boys turned to Professor Longbottom for guidance.

'You've just got to grab the Hippogriff by the tail and go for it,' Professor Longbottom told them. 'They're your classmates, they're not going to eat you.'

'Then why'd you just refer to them as Hippogriffs,' Fred mumbled under his breath.

'Easy for you to say, Professor. You don't have to ask one to dance. Who _did_ you take, anyway?'

'Mind that pot, James, or it will bite back. I took a young red-headed girl by the name of Ginny Weasley.'

James yelped. Fred guffawed. Tristan offered the professor a high-five.

'You- and _Mum?_ Did- did you…?'

'Did you kiss her?' Tristan leapt in with glee.

'Don't answer that!' James begged, shooting Tristan a pointed gesture with his one free hand.

'Never you mind,' Professor Longbottom shot them a wink. 'But I didn't get the date by milling around and being scared of it. Oh, dear James. Now you're in trouble.'

James frowned down at the pot. The surface of the soil was starting to boil. He found his arm stuck fast.

'Well I'm going to do it,' Clip announced to the table, his eyes set on Alannis McClellan where she sat reading a textbook across the table.

'Don't do it, Clip.' Fred warned.

'Not in front of- _ow!_ Of everybody.' James pleaded.

But Clip paid them no heed, and laid his tools down, marching around the table purposefully.

'There goes a brave man,' Tristan intoned solemnly, holding his dragonhide gloves across his breast. 'His name will live on in our memories long after his passing.'

But James watched in amazement as Clip approached Alannis. First he blushed. Then she did. Then they both smiled. James' jaw fell open as they went in for a sort of half-hug, half-handshake, and Clip flashed them a thumbs-up across the table.

James' pot chose that moment to erupt its contents all over him, filling his open mouth with a unfortunate helping of soil and dragon manure. He coughed and spluttered and wiped himself down furiously, but for the rest of the day he couldn't get the taste out of his mouth.

Of all of them, _Clip_ had managed to get a date already, and all James had got was shit on his face. It was going to be a long week.

'I'm getting the book tonight.' Tristan announced the following morning after breakfast. He had cornered James out in the Entrance Hall, and was whispering in hushed tones behind a headless suit of armour.

'You're still insane.' James replied. Though, secretly, a part of him was wondering if that book might not be their only salvation, after all. 'How do you even know where to look?'

They paused their conversation for a moment as a knot of Beauxbatons students marched past, clustered together as if in fear of one of them breaking off and accidentally having to mingle with anyone _not_ from their school.

'Bloody hate the French. Anyway, I've had an… unsolicited tip-off as to its whereabouts,' Tristan looked a little uncomfortable for some reason. 'Evidently there's an old dungeon that our dear friends have been spotted spending an inordinate amount of time frequenting lately. The entrance is supposedly loaded to the teeth with Hexes, but I should be able to take care of that.' A brief lick of flame flashed between his outstretched palms, gone again before James could be sure he hadn't imagined it.

'Good luck mate, is there anything in particular you'd like in the eulogy?'

With a final wry smile, Tristan disappeared into the crowd. James could only shake his head in disbelief.

'So he's really doing it?' Fred asked, falling into step alongside James as they made their way up the Grand Staircase. They had to make a small diversion as a group of the greatcoat-clad Durmstrang students clomped down towards them. Hogwarts and Beauxbatons alike fled before the oncoming tide. James managed to catch the eye of a blonde-haired witch who had arms as thick as his thighs, and looked like she could crush his head in her bare hands. She flashed him a toothy smile.

James whimpered a little.

'I think he found out where they've hidden it.'

'It's his funeral. You asked anyone yet?'

'Nope,' James replied glumly.

'Hi boys.'

Leah Ridley and Rosalie Gardner were waiting on the landing above them, wearing almost identical smiles that were a little close to predatory for James' liking.

'Hi Leah. Hi Rosie.'

The pair slid in alongside the boys. Leah on James' left, and Rosie on Fred's right. They were uncomfortably close. Leah smelled of roses and oranges.

'So have you handsome men got a date to the ball yet?' Leah purred. She was brushing up against James' arm rather frequently.

'Er, not really.'

'My goodness, what a coincidence! Neither do we. I was just saying to Rosie about how I can't wait for a handsome young wizard to come and sweep us away. And now here you are!'

She giggled coyly, looking up at James through her lashes. James swallowed. His palms were getting clammy all of a sudden.

'Here we are,' Fred agreed.

'We were actually just on our way to this classroom- _here!'_ James grabbed Fred by the shirt and yanked him through the nearest door, slamming it shut on the girls outside.

'Bloody hell,' James breathed. 'That was close.'

'To what, getting a date? They were _totally_ fishing for us to ask, mate.'

'Yea, I figured that. I'm _not_ going to the ball with a girl who tried to poison me last year!'

'C'mon mate, poison is a little harsh. A light drugging, perhaps.'

'She's crazy.'

'Rosie's not so bad though. Seems the more normal of the pair. She's not particularly clever, but at least not clinically insane.'

James groaned. Fred was wearing the same expression Clip had worn the day before. He was going to do it. It felt like, pretty soon, James was going to be the only one left in the school without a date for the ball.

He stomped off to Runes by himself, feeling very much alone. He passed numerous groups of girls along the way – he'd never really noticed them before. The way they hung around in packs all of a sudden seemed so predatory. How was he supposed to get one alone to ask? Which one did he even _want_ to ask, was the real question.

'James, darling! Why the long face?'

'Ugh.'

The blonde hair and voracious smile of Odette Mansfield was blocking his path. James told himself that it was the fact that she was making him late that was annoying him, and not the fact that her proximity had forced him to think about taking _her_ to the ball. Not that _that_ would ever happen. She had a–

'Hello, little man.'

'Loyal.'

The Beauxbatons student unlaced his arm from Odette's waist and strode up to James, who was forced to shake the proffered hand.

'I am so glad to finally meet you properly, James Potter.'

'A pleasure, I'm sure,' James growled through gritted teeth. He was busy trying to throttle Loyal's stupid, delicate fingers.

'Odette tells me you like to play Quidditch also. I would have thought someone as small as yourself would be well suited to Seeker. Still, the position is not for everyone. Chaser is nice and simple, isn't it?'

James took the bait without hesitation. 'Chasing is ten times as hard as Seeking could ever be! Poncing around on your broomstick above all the action. What do you do up there all game, sip tea while the real men play Quidditch?'

'Now, now boys, let's not get too feisty,' Odette purred, slipping in between the two of them. James puffed out his chest and scowled up at Loyal. 'I was so hoping you two would get along. Why not speak of something more pleasant… Who are you taking to the Ball James? You must have had a dozen propositions by now.'

'Argh!' James roared, throwing his hands in the air. 'Is that all that _anyone_ in this damned school wants to talk about?'

'Come now, James,' and Odette reached out and tapped him lightly on the nose. 'Once you realise we're not all that scary, you'll have much more fun. Perhaps you just need someone to… show you the ropes. Either way, you'd better hurry, else you'll end up taking one of that rag-tag bunch that follows you around all day. Imagine having to show up with _Brooks_ on your arm. Perish the thought!'

Loyal laughed, as if Odette had just told the funniest joke in the world, and the pair simpered off, arm in arm, leaving James muttering an endless string of profanities under his breath until he could no longer hear their fading footsteps.

Perhaps it was what Odette had said about being afraid of the girls; perhaps it was because James so desperately wanted to get her goading smile out of his mind's eye; or perhaps it was simply because she had implied that he wouldn't do it, that James marched right up to Holly Brooks in the middle of the Library at lunch time and planted himself directly in front of her.

'James, I'm so sorry about the other day I didn't mean to upset you I-'

'Stop talking.' James' speech was clipped and snappish. Mostly because he was trying to fight the sudden urge to flee.

'Oh, James you're still mad at me? I know it was wrong, but you actually almost _did_ beat me with the ink and then-'

' _Shhhhh!'_

This time, Madam Cresswell stepped in to shut Holly up.

'James are- are you ok?'

'Come to the ball with me.'

It was barked as far more of a command, than a question. Holly stood stock still, blinking slowly. Her mouth was half open, and her braid fell free of her lips, the sodden tip swinging slowly back and forth over her stomach.

'I- _Me?_ As in- with _you?_ '

Oh, Merlin. She was going to say no. James briefly wondered if it wouldn't be so bad if he leapt straight out the nearest window.

 _Yes._ James wanted to say. It came out as ' _Erp.'_ He nodded vigorously to punctuate the sentence.

'But I thought you were mad at me. Of course I'll go with you!' Holly leapt forward and wrapped James up in a hug. 'Oh I have the _perfect_ dress! And this flower, and- oh James it's just _perfect!'_

Without warning, Holly leaned in a planted a kiss square on James' cheek. The spot here her lips touched flared brilliantly hot, and the rush of her breath sent shivers down his neck.

'Yea, perfect,' he mumbled, lifting a hand to the spot.

'Did I just witness James Potter getting a real life kiss in the middle of the library?' Fred roared from across the room, having just entered.

The majority of the occupants turned immediately to face James and Holly where they stood. A rustle of whispers instantly blossomed, and James felt a new heat rising in his cheeks.

Madam Cresswell had just hefted a rolled-up edition of the _Prophet,_ and was marching their way with purpose.

'Try it again, mate. I don't think some Slytherins down in the dungeon quite heard,' James shot when Fred and the rest of their friends arrived.

The girls instantly set to fussing about over Holly, as if what had just occurred as an event they had all been holding out for.

'See Tristan, I told you I could do it. And faster than you did, too- wait. Where _is_ Tristan?'

Silence descended instantly upon all four girls.

James, Fred and Clip turned to face them as one.

'Not sure?' Cassie squeaked.

Holly was chewing fervently on the end of her braid – a dead giveaway.

'You animals!' Fred roared, lunging forward with a-

 _Whump!_

With a forearm strike to rival the highest-paid Beater in the League, Madam Cresswell landed her _Prophet_ squarely across Fred's face. He squawked, thrown off balance, windmilling his arms wildly as she set upon him with repeated strokes.

'Get- out- of- my- library- _now!'_

Each word was punctuated with another smack. The boys fled in terror, one final lingering look shot back at the girls – in fits of giggles once more.

When Tristan didn't show for dinner that night, the boys mobilised. And at half-past ten they snuck out the Portrait hole under the cover of James' Invisibility cloak. They gathered out on the landing, all three crouching awkwardly so that the Cloak covered their ankles.

'We need to get to the dungeons,' James whispered. 'Tristan said something about the book being hidden down there. An unused dungeon that the girls have been spending all their time in, apparently.'

Clip sucked in a burst of air through his teeth. 'That's got to be _way_ down, then. Everything down to three levels below the ground is occupied. Our F.A.R.T club mentors from first year loved skulking around down there.'

'Let's get to it,' Fred suggested. 'I'm freezing.'

'You ought to have thought of that before you decided to come in your pyjamas,' James muttered, tugging a sheet of parchment free from his pocket. 'Luckily, I managed to keep hold of this, so it should be easy to track him down.'

James unfolded the sheet, nodded for Clip to light his wand beneath the Cloak. In the shadowy wandlight, the three boys watched with rapture as the inky black lines spiderwebbed across the page, like water running between pavestones. Slowly, as James progressively unfolded the Map, the castle began to take shape before him. Every wall and corridor, every hidden nook and cranny. James felt as if he were seeing into the very mind, the very heart of the castle itself, and as the final two lines met up with a miniscule flare of light, he felt as if he were its master.

'This way,' he gestured after a brief consultation.

The three boys padded off down the Grand Staircase. Their socked feet made nary a sound on the plush rugs. The only evidence of their passing was the faintest rustle of fabric and the occasional flash of an ankle as the Cloak kicked out around them,

James was always amazed by the activity of the castle at night. At this hour, all ought to have been in bed, and the only souls haunting the corridors should be the very occasional Professor, unlucky enough to have drawn duty.

But this was never the case. The castle thrived under the cover of darkness. Not in the same way it did during daylight hours, with the bustle and noise of a thousand students, no. At night, the castle wore a different mask entirely. Denizens skulked between shadows, met up in secluded recesses and traded secrets too valuable to utter beneath the sun. Or they gave themselves to one another in different ways, from the desperate, clutching rendezvous that couldn't even wait for a private location, to those that slunk by with quiet confidence, their smug grins belying their scandalous intentions.

The curiosities of the night didn't stop there, as James saw students who wouldn't acknowledge each other's' existence during the day, exchange polite greetings now cloaked in shadow. Even Beauxbatons students mingled. It was as if it was not only the castle that wore the mask, but every single haunt who was sharing these hours with her. As if, for these few hours, they were all different people entirely, their waking lives unattached to their business at this hour, and with the rising of the sun, it would wash away the shadows in which they had painted themselves, and any deeds partaken through these witching hours would fall away in kind. And the masks would clatter to the floor.

The three hesitated at the entrance to the dungeons. The archway was marked by an abrupt change from the ochre sandstones from which the castle was constructed, to the dark, crystalline granite upon which it perched. Twin, rough-hewn granite pillars bulged form the walls, a barbican guarding the yawning darkness that stretched within its maw.

'It's only the dungeons,' Clip whispered, mirroring James' own uncertain thoughts. 'We've been there plenty of times before.'

They stepped over the threshold with some trepidation. Almost instantly, the scant few sounds that could be heard became muffled, as if an invisible barrier now stood between them and the world above. James drew his wand and lit it, shedding the Cloak and stowing it in his bag. They were unlikely to encounter anyone where they were going.

The torches here were few and far between, and as the boys passed what James knew as the turn-off to the Slytherin common room, they disappeared almost entirely. Still, they pressed onwards and downwards, with only the light of James' wand, and a steady, drip-drip of leaking water for company.

This deep within the bowels of the castle, the corridors resembled caves, more than buildings. The walls and ceiling were uneven. Upon closer inspection, they appeared to be crafted from a series of deep, overlapping gouges, perhaps by magic. James ran his hand along one wall as they went, to keep the feeling of something solid close at hand in this ubiquitous darkness.

The occasional door dotted the featureless black granite, but Clip assured James that they were still one level too high, and that these were used for store rooms for potions ingredients, old disused artefacts and school supplies.

Down again they went. An unlit staircase announced the end of the corridor. It would tightly down to James' right. The steps were jagged and treacherous. All three lit their wands to better navigate. The steady dripping that had taunted them from the moment that they entered the dungeons proper drew closer, and James caught a whiff of a damp, mouldy smell in the air.

The subtle splash of water against his bare shins didn't register, as he took another step, preoccupied by looking over his shoulder to ensure the others were close behind. His socked feet instantly slipped out from underneath him on the wet, slimy rocks and he cried out in alarm as he fell – hard – onto the unforgiving stone stairway. He cracked his elbow against the wall in the tumble, and his wand flew free form his grip, winking out instantly and allowing the enveloping darkness to smother him with glee. He slid on the slick surface, with each step crashing down repeatedly on his lower back, yanking up his shirt and flensing his skin until he thought it must be his own blood now assisting the slide.

The ground levelled out without warning, and he pitched forward. One hand slapped against something unmistakeably wooden, and a bolt of pain lanced up his left arm. He had half a moment to cry out, before the floor rushed up to meet him, and he bit down painfully on his tongue, the hot rush of steely blood filling his mouth.

With a hacking cough, James spat, and pushed himself upright. _Everything_ hurt. He could feel the tender skin on both of his knees where it had been stripped free on the rough granite. His back was a shredded ruin, his fingers coming away coated in a thin film of blood wherever he prodded. His wrist stung where he had hit it on what he assumed was a door, but worst of all, he couldn't see a single thing.

The darkness was terrifying in its absoluteness. James blinked furiously, but couldn't tell the difference between having his eyes open or closed. Had he hit his head? He didn't think so; it didn't feel sore – about the only part of him that didn't. He pushed himself up onto wobbly legs, and limped two steps before smacking his knee into unforgiving stone.

'Ow! Guys? Hey, can you hear me?'

They hadn't been more than two steps above him on the staircase, he had turned around to check that very thig before falling. But, if they had been, he would have heard them now, calling after him, surely. All that he could hear was a pressing silence, and with each second he strained, the pressure on his eardrums increased.

He reached in his pocket for- his wand! He'd dropped it in the fall. His breathing really began to quicken now. He spun around in the empty room, for all the good it would do. His footsteps echoed, as if he were standing in a giant cathedral hewn from rock. There had been a door, he was sure of it. Desperately, he fumbled his way back to the wall, any wall, and began to feel blindly along it. He stumbled over the rough ground. Here, it had not even been worn smooth by centuries of footfalls. Where _was_ he?

For what seemed like an age, his fingers found nothing but rock, until, with a triumphant shout, he came across wood. Rough, splintery. He felt the boards where they had been lashed together unevenly, the iron bindings. The handle! He gripped the cool iron in his hands and tugged, but garnered no response. He swung off it, desperately scuffing at the gritty rock, but it offered him less than nothing. Desperately, he threw his weight against it, pushing now with everything he had. He could _smell_ the other side – that damp smell, like mouldy earth. It must have been coming from the water that had caused him to slip.

A thin film of grit was coating the disused floor, and it thwarted any attempt James made to get a decent footing. He slid back and forth across it, slipping to his knees several times. The sound of his scuffling filled the cavern, echoing even after he had given up trying to push, and leaned up against the boards in defeat.

 _Wait a minute…_

That shuffling sound wasn't the echo of his footsteps. Those had long since stopped now. This new sound was too regular, too systematic to have been his desperate work. James strained his ears. This sounded like… a heavy cloak being dragged across gravels, or somebody shuffling along with a dead leg.

 _Tristan!_ Was his first thought. James blindly tilted his head, in an attempt to work out which direction the noise was coming from. To his left, it seemed. He took an unsteady step in that direction, feeling every inch of the space before him with flailing hands.

'Hey, Tristan, it's me! It's James!'

 _James- ames- ames…_

His voice echoed back to him. No reply came, only the steady _scrape, scrape_ noise. Layer upon layer of the sound bounced back and forth around the cavern, becoming an intermingled his, building in his ears like a gathering wind.

'Tristan?' James called, his voice wavering a touch.

And then he smelt it again. That damp smell, thick and cloying. Filled with decaying humus and stale air. Sickly and sweet at the same time. And he suddenly remembered when he had smelt its like: in Diagon Alley, as one of the Infected had singled him out and cursed his name.

Panic instantly rising, James spun back the way he had come. But in the darkness he couldn't be sure where he was facing. He took a frantic step, and instantly fell flat on his face. A gentle breeze wafted up from the direction of the noise, carrying with it that unmistakeable scent.

James bolted to his feet. He flung his arms out before him, and made off in a frantic half-run, half-stumble back towards the door. He soon collided hard with one of the granite walls, crashing into it and bending his fingers back awkwardly. He felt something pop, but adrenaline fuelled him onwards. One hand clutched desperately at the stone, guiding himself as much as steadying himself. Was the scraping getting closer?

The breeze was building. It came in bursts, as if it were gathering its strength before each pulse. Each time a little stronger, the smell a little more potent. James could swear he felt ethereal fingers clutching at his bare skin.

The wall curved to the left, and James made to follow it. He looked back over his shoulder – what he was expecting to see, he didn't know – but only darkness greeted him. Was that patch over there particularly thick, or was it his imagination? It seemed as if the very air itself stirred each time the wind buffeted him, as if it were parting to let the breeze through, opening up a portal to a realm of even thicker Night.

The rough splintery wood was a blessing beneath James' fingers. He scrabbled at the gaps between boards, thumping against the timber as hard as he could, kicking and scratching and yelling in his desperation. He had run out of tunnel to flee down, and now he was _certain_ that the sound was approaching. He thought he could make out individual footfalls now, and they were close to being drowned out by the gale that hammered him time and again. It kicked up pebbles and twigs, casting them against his ankles with much the same efficacy as he hurled himself at the door.

He was now certain he could feel something grabbing. As if the air was trying to form hands. It was the gentlest of touches, but each one was tangible, and every time they came, they left him feeling dirty and sullied. One such caressed his cheek as would a lover, and he cried out, pinning himself back up against the door. The scraping was metres away, judging by what he heard. James flailed his arms wildly, as if his fists could keep it at bay. But the darkness simply parted before him, and returned again with those gently clutching hands.

James picked up a rock. He'd be damned if he was going to go out without a fight. He crouched, ready. The shuffling stopped.

The winds stopped. Every muscle in James' body was tensed. His chest heaved. His breathing seemed so loud that it was all that he could hear. Seconds stretched, and not a sound came. James swung his head left and right, but could make sense of no pattern to the darkness. It was absolute.

'C'mon then! James roared, dashing forward with stone in hand, bringing it up to strike a blow.

But he was trying to hit a foe he couldn't see, and his strike passed through thin air. Overbalance, James tripped on a jutting rock, and crashed hard to the ground. Brilliant silver stars blossomed in his vision, and he whipped his head around to be faced with a glaring, silver light.

His hands went up to protect himself, but he knew already it was too late. He tried at least to get a look at his attacker before they descended upon him.

'Fred?' James croaked, his voice sandy and dry.

'Mate, what are you doing down here? How'd you get here? Bloody hell, you look a right state. Give him a hand up, Tristan.'

' _Tristan?'_

'Right here, lad.'

Tristan lowered his wand so James could make him out. He was naked from the waist up, and wearing enough make up to satisfy even Odette. His lips were a vibrant red, his eyes picked out in thick, dark mascara. The words "Disappointing girls since 2005" were scrawled across his chest in what appeared to be more lipstick.

'Yea it erm… doesn't seem to come off so easily. Bloody girls knew I was down here somehow. Spent most of the day hung upside down under a Full Body-Bind. At least it wasn't in the Entrance Hall. I've got a reputation to protect, you know.'

But James didn't hear most of what Tristan had said. They had him now, why weren't they getting the heck out of there? He threw a glance back where the scraping noise had been coming from. Uneven, black granite stretched out as far as the wandlight carried. The only set of footsteps were his own.

'We need to get out of here,' James stammered. 'There's something- some _one_ here. In this room. I heard them.'

'Steady on, James,' Fred laughed. 'There's _nobody_ down here. We had a look around trying to find you. Just a few old storerooms and a room with chains hanging from the ceilings. Bit spooky really.'

'I'm serious! There's somebody in here. They were chasing me, I'm sure of it.'

'You're starting to sound a bit like Cat on a bad day, mate. Here. Clip's got your wand. How you managed to end up all the way down this end of the corridor is beyond me. You must have slid a good hundred yards.'

That didn't sound right to James at all. He grasped hungrily for his wand, gripping it tightly in his hand. He followed his friends out of the room without further protest, and as he cast one last look back into the darkness, he felt the gentlest of breezes stir the hairs on his head.


	7. Spilt Drinks & Split Lips

The clock was tolling at Hogwarts. It startled a handful of birds from their perches, tossing them into the air to flit like leaves on the wind. Its resounding peals rolled forth in waves over the grounds, warden and protector of all that they touched. On a still night such as this, the sounds made it all the way up to the Gryffindor tower, where four boys huddled nervously around a fire, unspeaking.

They picked at their collars and shrugged their shoulders. All had left little scuff marks in the dust at their feet – a tribute to the gathering nervousness. The fire roared, though the night was mild. They cleared their throats far too often, but none would brave the feat of speech. For to speak was to lend a certain credence to that which hovered over their heads. As if, in their defiant silence, what lay ahead remained intangible. Escapable.

But it would not last; the Ball was upon them.

How fickle time was, James brooded. An hour and a half trapped in a Runes classroom could stretch on for what seemed like weeks, yet this day had slipped by like scenery on the Hogwarts Express. Here and gone, before he had been able to register more than the foggiest of details.

The fire crackled and hummed; happy to fill the yawning silence that stretched between them. As the last toll of the bell faded into the night, they felt the weight of what was to come settle over them, and suddenly, the silence became threatening.

'Should probably get going,' mumbled Clip, leaning on a bedpost and staring fixedly down at his shoes. He'd been that way for the past half-hour. Eye contact had been scarce, perhaps for fear of each of them seeing their own trepidation reflected back in the eyes of their brothers.

'Might not be so bad, you know.' The hollow ring to Fred's words were matched only by the emptiness of his shrug.

'At least I'm not going with a psychopath,' James added. The ribbing was familiar, and thus safe. It was a comfortable bond which they held on to so tightly, for they all knew that tonight, at some point, they were going to be cut free to face their battles alone.

'And I'm not the one who only asked my date because the girl I _really_ fancy told me not to.'

Once again, a wealth of regret washed over James at having revealed the contents of his conversation with Odette to his friends. 'I just can't believe Tristan actually got asked. By a _girl.'_ An abrupt change of topic was in order.

'Well I wouldn't have said yes to a _bloke_.'

Of all of them, Tristan carried the least nerves. His back was the straightest, his eyes the clearest, his jokes, the only ones present. Perhaps being asked himself had taken the pressure off. Or perhaps it had been the several Butterbeers that lay empty next to his position.

'I don't think I've said one word to this girl the entire time I've been here,' James mused.

'Chloe Swann.' Fred tossed up her name as if testing out a foreign language. 'I think I might have accidentally given her a Fainting Fancy once in Transfiguration.'

'Not Keel-over Chloe?'

'That's the one! I heard she beat Cassie in a Potions test once, and Cassie swore eternal vengeance.'

'You're a braver man than I, risking Cassie's ire like that,' James said with the first hint of a real grin all night. 'What were here words when she heard? "Fraternising with the enemy" I believe.'

'You're all just jealous because you've picked the wrong people,' here Tristan gestured to Fred and Clip, 'for the wrong reasons.' He nodded to James. 'And my date _actually_ fancies me and we'll have a great time while all of your nights will be a disaster.'

Outside their window a startled raven gave a baleful cry.

'Fancies you? Mate, she cornered you coming out of the lads' bathroom and practically pinned you up against the wall until you answered.'

'Yea well… you play the hand you're dealt. C'mon, we said we'd meet the girls at six. We're late already.'

With the momentary light-hearted distraction quelled, the boys shared a final gloomy look before shuffling off out to make their way to the Great Hall and their awaiting fates. The fire behind them coughed and sputtered with the closing door. It gave a final _whoosh_ of flame and died before their footsteps had faded from earshot. But none remained to witness.

Their traipse down to the Entrance Hall was both interminable and instantaneous. Looking back, James couldn't put his finger on any single detail of the journey, but he recalled it seeming to take a lifetime. A death-march, Fred had jokingly called it. They'd all given a half-hearted chuckle at that.

James remembered trying repeatedly to cheer himself up. It was only a Ball, he had told himself. How bad could it be?

The boys froze as one at the final landing of the Grand Staircase. Before them, the Entrance Hall was swimming with a sea of riotous colours. Greens and yellows and purples all floated side-by-side in an array that stung James' eyes to even look at. Everywhere he turned, another garish show of style was on display. Feathers warred with glittering sequins for attention. Expensive jewellery winked and glinted its way to the fore, aided by the warm, flickering light from the chandeliers above.

Upbeat music rolled out from the doors to the Great Hall, struggling to be heard over the shouts and calls of a hundred eager students. Nervous greetings were on display across the floor; tentative pecks on cheeks, or awkward hugs. A few flimsy handshakes from the faint-hearted. Friends grabbed friends unceremoniously, pulling each other this way and that to gossip or introduce or simply to ogle. The odd shouting argument reared its ugly head on occasion, even in the short time the boys were observing. With tensions stretched so taught, it took only the slightest of pressure to snap them clean, leaving the participants with only the angry recoil and hurtful words.

And tension there was, overlain on it all. A latent expectation filled the air so full that it was stifling. It was a breath held, by all present. That moment where they all stood at the cliff's edge; or the peak of a Wronskei Feint. The dive was before them, but would the sound torn free from their lips be ecstatic laughter or gut-rending fear. The presence of so many still out gathered in the Entrance Hall showed that few were bold enough to find out. One would need to move first.

James took a step forwards.

He had seen the girls, gathered together in a small huddle to the side, as out of the way of the chaos as was possible. The three others followed, after a round of straightening collars and flattening creases. The press of the mob was hot and close. The smells were overwhelming, and stung James' nose – too much perfume and aftershave, everywhere he turned. Voices shouted harshly in his ear, in English, and French, and the multitude of languages entertained at Durmstrang. He elbowed, and was elbowed back in turn.

When he finally broke free, his friends were a sight for sore eyes. So relieved was he, that he dashed up to the nearest of them and pulled them into an enveloping hug.

'Well, hello James Potter. This is most unexpected.'

 _Oh, bloody hell._

James leapt back as if Rain has just zapped him with a Stinging Jinx. The smile she offered him was exceedingly smug, and her eyes twinkled with glee as if she had just won the House Cup. It sent a wave of shivers down James' spine. Her nervous-looking Beauxbatons date shuffled uncomfortably nearby.

'Ahem.'

James turned sheepishly to face Holly, where she stood with an arched brow and a very level stare. He took a shaky step towards her. In his periphery, James could see Tristan with his head in his hands.

'Hello, James. It's me, your _date.'_

'Yes, it is.' James practically squeaked.

And it was. But somehow, it almost _wasn't._ It was Holly, but a Holly James had never seen before. Gone was the messy braid with its perpetually-sodden tip from incessant chewing. Gone was the self-conscious hunch to her shoulders and the shifty, downcast gaze that she reverted to when she thought no-one was looking.

In their place was this girl – this young woman – who looked like Holly, and certainly she _glared_ like Holly, but who was somehow completely new to James. He was struck speechless.

A thick cascade of midnight locks tumbled freely over one shoulder, flowing from an artful array piled high atop her head and fastened with a glistening silver-and-jade flower pin. Her dress was of two parts; the skirt, a long, flowing mass of black silk that stretched to the floor, split right up one side to allow the occasional scandalous flash of skin. Her top was of the same hue, with patterned lace all the way down to her wrists. It left the thinnest sliver of her stomach bared; ivory skin shining bright in contrast, drawing James' eyes to that spot again and again as if by some force of magnetism.

She quirked dark-painted lips in the barest of smiles, and her scowl melted somewhat as she surveyed James in turn.

 _You look amazing._ That was the first thing to come to mind. But he couldn't say that, could he? Not to Holly, surely. She'd slap him. Was that type of thing acceptable between friends? He still hadn't made his mind up on just what he would say when he opened his mouth to speak.

'You- erm… Hi, Holly. Nice to see you.'

'Thank- oh. Nice to er, see you too.'

James didn't miss the flicker of disappointment that sparked in her grey eyes. He kicked himself internally. He opened his mouth to correct the mistake and say it again, but Holly was looking away already, toward the Great Hall. The moment had passed. _Idiot,_ he cursed himself.

Finally able to tear his eyes away, James looked around to see that the others had made a somewhat more successful start to their evenings. Clip and Alannis were in fits of hushed laughter over some part of a private conversation. Rosie was fawning all over Fred's arm, and Chloe Swann looked up at Tristan with nothing short of utter admiration. Cassie, a nervous-looking Emry Sameer on her arm, was glaring daggers at Chloe's back from a safe distance. Even Cat and Pot-Head seemed to be able to comport themselves better than James.

Suddenly remembering himself, James spun back to Holly – he hadn't even given her a hug! Unfortunately, he did it just as the group decided to move off to the hall, and so he ended up dropping his shoulder into her sternum in what would have been considered a rather impressive rugby tackle, and not in the slightest an attempt at an affectionate gesture.

'Ow, Merlin! James that hurt.'

'Sorry,' James felt his ears burning, and contented himself with proffering his hand, falling in step behind Tristan and Chloe, as the throng slowly filtered into the Great Hall.

' _Get it together,'_ Tristan mouthed over his shoulder when Holly wasn't looking. James nodded, drawing in a deep breath and running a hand through his hair nervously.

'Don't do that,' Holly hissed out the corner of her mouth. James looked at her, quizzically. 'You're _always_ doing that. For once in your life, could you just leave it alone?'

James nodded mutely. He'd managed to upset her already; even he could work that out. Normally, he'd have no trouble getting a smile out of her again. He'd crack a joke, or tell a story, or pull her braid from her mouth with an exasperated look. But that was with _regular_ Holly. With this new and frightening version, he had no idea how to even begin. He chose to stare off into the crowd instead, his mind fervently working to come up with something clever and _sophisticated_ enough for the situation.

He quickly caught sight of a disturbance in the flow of the crowd. People were shuffling and fidgeting, stepping on toes and twisting ankles in high heels to get out of the way of something. A fortuitous gap in the press allowed James a look in to see just what was behind all of the fuss.

Naturally, it was Odette Mansfield. Her, and that Beauxbatons fop Loyal Clavet, were sauntering through the crowd as if they were merely a horde of their own subjects. Loyal was wearing outlandish dress robes of periwinkle blue, with golden trim and an alarming array of peacock feathers quivering all about his person. But it wasn't only he that was gathering the myriad stares. Odette's dress of shimmering silver was cut to the absolute millimetre of decency. With a swooping neckline, and the way it seemed to cling as she walked, it left little up to the imagination-

 _Ow!_ James looked down to where Holly's hand was resting on his arm. Her black-painted nails were dug deep into the sleeve of his robe, and pain was lancing all the way up to his shoulder.

'See something you like?' Holly's voice was scarily quiet.

'No, nothing at all,' James quickly replied. This time, while looking directly at Holly.

The pressure on his arm tightened to nigh-unbearable for a heartbeat, before releasing. He felt Holly give a sigh, and look pointedly away.

Get it together was exactly was James needed to do, and fast. They hadn't even entered the Great Hall yet, and already he'd managed to upset Holly at least a dozen different ways. He just hadn't been _prepared._ He'd picked Holly because he had thought she would be the least difficult to deal with. They got along great, usually. They'd done loads of things together before, just the two of them. Late night study sessions in the library, or tucked away in the Waterfall Room underneath a blanket reading up on Defensive Spells. Why was it all of a sudden so different, so _difficult?_ There was something that had wedged itself between them now that James couldn't figure out, something that had settled over their relationship, destroying the entire dynamic.

James worried that if he didn't hurry up and figure out what it was, he wouldn't ever be able to get back what they had.

The Great Hall was a welcome distraction. They passed through the great oak doors, and James joined in the others in their gasps and exclamations of wonder, glad to finally have something acceptable to say.

The four long house tables were all gone, and in their stead stood a hundred or more small round counterparts, dotting the edges of the room. They were covered in shimmering silken cloths, and each one bore its own, individual ice sculpture, carved after one of the four Hogwarts Houses. The ceiling had been enchanted to show the clearest view of the night sky, so bright that every single star was visible, with the Milky Way splashed across as a backdrop to it all. As they looked up, it seemed that the stars themselves were falling, tiny flakes of glimmering snow fell down, disappearing again as soon as they touched hair or shoulder.

The fires roared in their hearths, casting out a shifting, primal warmth over the entire room. The floating candles were absent, and the way the light from the fire had to weave between the myriad tables to be seen lent the dance floor the feel of a hidden clearing, deep within the forest, a secret spot that might be shared only by lovers.

His nerves suddenly returned in earnest.

Tristan led the group to a table not _too_ close to the dancefloor, and James helped Holly to her seat – mentally patting himself on the back for at least remembering that one gesture of tact. Sadly, there were no lofty speeches from Renshaw to further delay the event, as she announced the opening of the ball right on the stroke of half-past six. They had until midnight to revel. Five and a half hours left for James to try and avoid dancing of any kind. He looked across at the way Holly was tapping her fingers in time to the music already. His chances didn't look good.

'It's just so lovely to finally meet you all!' Chloe announced into the awkward silence. 'It's so nice to hang out with new people, Tristan has told me so _much_ about you!'

James quirked an eyebrow at Tristan. It appeared to be the first Tristan was hearing of this.

'Yes,' Cassie replied. 'I imagine spending all of that time locked up in Ravenclaw Tower must get lonely, eventually.'

Chloe tossed her head defiantly. Her short, blonde hair was arranged so intricately that it must have been held in place by magic.

'Well Cassandra,' Chloe shot back, 'if you want to be the _best,_ sometimes you just have to work for it.'

James was glad that Cassie didn't have her Dragon Book on hand.

'I'm glad we're all getting along!' Fred yelled into the centre of the table.

'Isn't it so lovely,' Rosie crooned.

James nodded noncommittally. This was beginning to get weird. These were, for the most part, people he had spent almost every day with for the past two years. There was _never_ awkward silences. But dress them up and threaten them with dancing, and all of a sudden it was like they had forgotten how to act altogether.

Rain's Beauxbatons date took the opportunity to nudge her gently and gesture towards the dancefloor. She graciously accepted, holding out her hand for him to lead. The poor lad looked terrified. James didn't entirely blame him.

'Until later,' Rain purred to the table, but the way her eyes lingered on James, he felt as if she had been speaking directly to him.

'What is it with you two?' Holly hissed in his ear. 'You can't be in the same room as each other without making love-eyes at one another all day long. Don't think I don't see it, I'm not stupid.'

'What? It's nothing! She's _Rain._ She's weird, that's all. She looks at me and it feels all funny.'

In the blink of an eye Holly was leaning back away from James, her arms folded. 'Well then, if she makes you feel so _funny,_ why didn't you ask her?'

'I didn't want to,' James mumbled, feeling horribly out of his depth.

That softened her somewhat, and she leaned back in, visibly relaxing. 'I'm sorry James, it's just- you're _you,_ and, well… sometime I just have to pinch myself to make sure this isn't some kind of a sick joke.'

Not knowing how to respond, James put his hand out on the table for Holly to take. It seemed to be the right thing to do, for she took it and gave him the first real smile he'd got all night. His stomach did a little bit of a lurch.

Clip and Alannis were the next to head off to the dancefloor, and Cat and Cassie, with their respective partners not long after. The remaining three boys stayed defiantly in their seats, despite increasingly obvious hints from the three girls.

'Well,' Holly announced to the table. 'I'm going to get something to drink. Would you like a Butterbeer, James? It might loosen you up a bit, you're as stiff as one of these ice sculptures.'

'If that's the case don't leave the poor boy hanging!' Tristan blurted out in alarm. 'At least finish what you've started.'

Chloe laughed as if he'd just told the most hilarious joke in history. Holly rolled her eyes so hard James was surprised she didn't come back dizzy. 'One of these days, you're going to meet someone who's your match, Tristan, and she is going to terrify you.'

Tristan looked only partly concerned.

Holly gestured for the other girls to follow. James hadn't realised that they'd silently been holding hands for the past fifteen minutes, but when her fingers slipped free from his, he instantly missed the contact. It had felt comforting.

As soon as the girls had left earshot, Fred leaned in. 'I don't think we're going to last, gents.'

'The way Holly's talking, it sounds like James sure isn't,' Tristan quipped.

'If she doesn't slap you first, mate. Did you want to ogle Mansfield a _bit_ harder? And what was that hugging Rain thing all about?'

'I dunno,' James mumbled, running a hand through his hair. 'Bit nervous, I guess. Could do with a Butterbeer, or six.'

'Tell me about it,' Tristan agreed. 'Hey, does Chloe seem… normal to you guys?'

'Aside from the fact that she hasn't let go of your arm all night?'

'You can hardly talk, Fred. I'm fairly sure I saw Rosie _sniffing_ you when you weren't looking.'

'Well I can't blame her, I'm a nice-smelling bloke. Here-' Fred lunged towards Tristan, stuffing his head unceremoniously into his armpit. The ensuing struggle knocked over a crystal goblet filled with water.

The girls had chosen that moment to reappear, and stood about uncertainly, frowning quizzically at the scuffle.

'Have we interrupted a… moment?' Holly enquired.

The boys separated, and all three of them accepted their drinks sheepishly.

'So Tristan, Chloe tells us that your date doesn't end tonight. That you have plans to spend tomorrow morning down by the lakeside, having a picnic. That sounds lovely.'

For some reason, Holly stared very pointedly at James at this point. His face bore only honest confusion; this was the first he was hearing of any such arrangement. By the way Tristan appeared to have inhaled some of his Butterbeer, _he_ was only now learning about it, too.

'We do? I mean, erm, yes we do.'

'He's even promised to bring me flowers.'

Tristan was getting paler by the second. 'It appears I'm quite the romantic.'

'Well, maybe it's time you showed us, Tristan darling.'

As if they had rehearsed it, the three girls rose to their feet as one. Holly's hand on James' shoulder was an iron grip. The boys shared one last glance, raised their bottles and downed the contents.

The ending of the current song was a dirge to James' ears, as they made their way out onto the floor.

They waded once more through the melange of laughter and colour. It seemed now that some barrier had been torn down, that the nerves and the tension were no longer present. Unabashed enjoyment had flooded in to fill the void; the smiles were genuine, the shortness of breath a measure of how much fun one had been having.

And so James felt even more out of place, as he made his nervous way through the crowd. He could feel stares on him from every direction. He felt like an outsider, like all of these people out here enjoying themselves were now part of a private club, where membership was earned through one's ability to dance. And here he was, a lowly newcomer, stumbling gracelessly between them, red-faced and with heart racing from fear, rather than exertion.

'Just relax,' Holly whispered into his ear.

'Holly, I don't- I can't-'

She had chosen a spot near the centre of the room. People pressed in on all sides. James was certain they would collide with another couple. She laced her fingers through his own. Her palms were cool and dry. A stark contrast to his own.

'Take my waist.'

'Your _what?'_

The previous song ended on a single drawn-out note, and Holly favoured him with a scowl. James compromised by placing his hand halfway up her back. Even that contact was making the entirety of his right arm tingle.

'Lower,' her voice slid over him with the softness of silk, and James shuddered.

He moved his hand down a half-inch.

Holly stepped in, closing the gap between them to almost nothing, and whispered 'Lower.'

They were so close that her breath was stirring the hairs on James' neck. It seemed unnaturally heavy. She smelled of flowers that James didn't even know the names of. Beneath his hands, James could feel her body tense in anticipation.

His own mouth was dry, his heart hammering in his chest so loudly that even Holly must have heard it. He shifted his hand as low as he dared – any further and he'd be resting it on the sliver of skin she had bared.

James had thought they were close before, but somehow, without even taking a step, Holly shifted her weight so that barely a sheaf of parchment could have fit between them. Her face was centimetres from James' own. Her eyes filled his vision, and he could count every lash.

'Don't make me say it again,' she whispered.

With his heart pounding, and a rushing sound in his ears that must have been his own blood, James went for it. He shot his hand downwards, as far as he dared, in what he could only describe as a desperate lunge. He felt it alight on soft, round, fabric-covered skin.

Luckily, the music had started up, and it was enough to stifle Holly's yelp of alarm as she grabbed hold of James' wrist and moved it firmly _upwards_ to come to rest at less scandalous location.

And thus, in that moment of flushed cheeks and averted gazes, began the very thing that James had been dreading all week.

He had been worried about finding a girl, and asking a girl. About the ridicule that he would get if he was turned down, or the rumours that spread like wildfire each time he so much as acknowledged a potential candidate. He had worried about who his friends were taking; about Odette and her goading, and whether his response in taking Holly had been the right decision. He _had_ worried about having asked her for the wrong reasons, and about getting her hopes up. But now, having her in his arms, his heart racing wildly, he was worried that this night was going to end, and come tomorrow things would go back to how they had been and this woman who wore the painted lips and twinkling eye of his dear friend would go back to just being Holly, and he would have no idea about how to get her back again.

With all of this running through his mind, James had barely registered that they had started moving. He jerked in alarm to realise that he was swaying gently on the spot, that Holly looked to be _enjoying_ herself, and that he hadn't trod on her toes even once.

Which brought forth an entirely new set of worries; like how to react, as she led him about in a slow circle, or how close her body was to his, and the way it flowed so smoothly beneath his hands, or the way their cheeks would occasionally brush together. Until at one point he realised that he wasn't _worrying_ about these things any more, he was simply experiencing them, and _living_ them.

Such as the way Holly swayed sinuously, and James twisted his hips to better compliment her movements, or the way when she came in close, he, too would lean in until their noses would touch for the most fleeting of moments, moments packed with an eternities worth of promise. They began to move more calmly, more together, and before James realised it, he was dancing.

There were no flashy leaps to the sky, nor any dress-flaring twirls to be seen, but it was more than exhilarating enough for James. The way that Holly moved was mesmerising, how she managed to fit so much gracile fluidity into such an understated dance was enough to send James' mind reeling again and again, as she seemed to flow around the dancefloor before him. Her dark dress hugged the shadows, making her elusive enough to the eye to keep James' gaze fixed avidly upon her, afraid of missing so much as a second of the display he was now part of.

He gained confidence from her competence, and when the music brought them close, he saw a glimmer of the same disbelieving excitement mirrored back at him.

The crowd, with their haughty stares and directed whispers, faded into little more than a colourful backdrop, as James' attention was stolen more and more by the black and white figure before him. There was little to measure the night by, but for the waxing and waning of the distance between their bodies, and the number of wordless, breathless moments that they shared when their eyes met. Moments increasingly filled with confidence, gazes that lingered a little longer each time, lips that began to part in an almost expectant manner…

Their rhythm was broken as James sensed a disturbance in the crowd. A gap was opening up, and through the shifting bodies, he spied the reason.

Odette Mansfield had taken to the dancefloor.

She and Loyal Clavet were busily carving out their patch of ground, and bringing a number of bystanders to a standstill in the process. James couldn't help but look on, his attention ensnared by half of the dancing couple.

Holly was graceful to a fault, and moved with a fluidity that James still could not comprehend. Her dancing was shy, yet inviting, flitting in and out of the shadows and offering a coy sway of the hips, or a flirtatious arch of the neck. Each movement asked just a little more, a timid proposal fearful of rejection up until rejection was no longer an option and the two of them couldn't help but sign off on the promise that their bodies had been making.

There was nothing shy or timid about the way Odette moved; it was with a raw, unadulterated sensuality that made James' cheeks colour just to watch. Her movements didn't so much as invite her partner, as they did grab him and drag him in with no option of escape. Where Holly had used the shadows to hide her more vulnerable moments, Odette's diaphanous silver dress caught every facet of light in the room and reflected it back tenfold, so that one couldn't help but to look.

The music changed, but James' attention was still elsewhere, and he felt himself stumble, his foot coming down on something soft and uneven.

'Ow, James! That was my foot.'

He brought his eyes back to Holly's. The spark had faded. They left the dancefloor after that song, and Holly excused herself to rush to the bathroom.

James shuffled back to their table, kicking himself. He had been so close, so caught up in the moment. The next time they were drawn together, he was sure that they would have… And yet Odette had ruined all of it with her mere presence. James grabbed a half-empty Butterbeer from a nearby table and downed its contents.

'Where have you _been_ all night?' Fred was waiting at the table, an entire sleeve of his dress robe burned away and still smoking slightly.

'All night?' James mumbled, helping himself to another drink.

'It's nearly eleven. Alannis kissed Clip for everyone to see and then ditched him five minutes later for some specky git from Beauxbatons, Leah and Rosie tried to feed me some sort of love potion which they bungled and has had me hiccupping fireworks all night.' He held up his tattered sleeve. 'To think a Weasley wouldn't know a properly-brewed Love potion when he smelled one! Chloe dragged Tristan off towards the Basement after about ten minutes of dancing. Haven't heard from him since. It's been an unmitigated disaster across the board so far, thank Merlin you managed to do it right though.'

'I wouldn't be so sure of that,' James growled. Holly was still nowhere in sight.

'Speaking of which…' Fred looked as if he'd just seen a Thestral, and fled.

'James my love, you look simply _dashing_ tonight. Enough to set a poor girls heart to racing.' Odette was bearing down on him with the air of a circling hawk, and a glass in her hand that held something that definitely wasn't pumpkin juice.

Up close, James didn't know where to look. He found himself standing up, unbidden. 'Hello Odette.'

'Don't stand up on my behalf, sweetie.' Odette reached over and planted a hand on James' shoulder, firmly guiding him back to his seat. 'These chairs are so tacky aren't they? It looks like someone's tried to set _that_ one on fire. I'd hate to get this dress dirty.'

With no further warning, she slid down to place herself on James' lap, wrapping one arm around his shoulders for support, the other nursing the glass that was giving of suspiciously Firewiskey-esque aromas.

'Much better,' she giggled.

James' throat felt like it had constricted entirely. Up close, Odette's scent was heady and overwhelming. James' head was sitting in the arch of her neck, and he dared not look down for fear of catching another glimpse of what her salaciously-cut dress was trying so hard to show him.

'Where's Loyal?' James managed to stammer.

'Oh, off bragging to his groupies about his _dancing_ prowess no doubt. I've no idea why, poor soul can hardly last a minute. You, meanwhile, were making quite the scene out there. I got so caught up in watching you, I almost forgot to breathe. You take my breath away, James Potter. How does that make you feel?'

In truth, it made him feel like he'd just flown as high as he could on his broomstick, only to realise it had suddenly disappeared beneath him. Like he was in for the wildest ride of his life, and it might well end in his death, but damned if it wouldn't be thrilling every step of the way.

'Erm… cold?'

Refusing to be caught off-guard, Odette flashed a secret smile, and shuffled in to James a little closer. 'It is, isn't it? You wouldn't believe the breeze in this dress.'

James flushed just thinking about it. From the corner of his eye, he was desperately scanning the room for Holly. She would likely murder him if she caught him like this. But he was torn about what to do. A large part of him was telling him to get off, bid Odette a polite farewell, and go check on the wellbeing of his date. _Holly_ was the reason he was here, after all.

 _But Odette is the reason you are here with her._ Said the other part. That small anarchistic voice in his head that lived for the Chaos that Odette Mansfield injected into his life. The one that would whoop with glee as he hurtled towards the earth. It was only a tiny part of him, but it was mad, and thus it screamed the loudest.

'It's almost midnight,' James observed lamely.

'Is that a suggestion, my dear? Just enough time for us to steal away together, a secret rendezvous beneath the stars. Hidden from the eyes of all save the moon, hurrying back before the clock strikes, lest our absences be noted…'

'I have a date.' The sentence was stilted and jarring, but the sentiment was clear. Odette switched demeanours on a knife-edge.

'And how is that going for you, James?' Odette's voice was rising now. 'I see you took my suggestion to bring Brooks along. She's like a kicked puppy looking for a home, that one. It was cute of you to try and make me jealous, James. I'm flattered, I really am. The fact that you would go out of your way to ruin her night for me truly is heart-warming-'

 _Crash!_

James spun as best he could with Odette on his lap. Standing not three feet away was Holly, a rapidly-growing puddle at her feet where the two bottles of Butterbeer she had been bringing James lay shattered.

James leapt upright, but Odette was already clear, spinning off to re-join the crowd with childish glee etched all over her face. He bolted out the door after Holly, catching her at the entrance to the Dungeons, and spinning her around to face him.

'Holly, wait!'

 _Smack!_

Stars burst to life in his vision, as Holly's slap left him staggering. He tasted blood, but refused to release her hand, waiting for the world to right itself before speaking.

'Get away from me James!'

'Just wait, Holly. Let me explain, please.'

'Explain what, James? Because from where I'm standing it all makes _perfect_ sense now. Drooling over Mansfield any chance you get, having her all over you the second you think I'm out of the picture. Is it some sort of sick little roleplay game you two have going on, is that what it is? Whose life will we ruin tonight?'

'I'm not trying to ruin your _life_ Holly.' James felt that assertion was a little over the top.

'Really? You're not? Well you've got a funny way of going about it! Do you remember first year, when you turned my entire house against me, because you wanted to win a game? You guaranteed that every waking moment for me inside that Common Room would be a nightmare. The names those girls call me might come from their lips, but they were able to do it because of your hand, James.

'But I looked past it. I _forgave_ you for it. My last friend, my _only_ friend, because that's what friends do, James. _That_ is what friends do. They don't string them along by asking them on a date, make them feel second-rate all night and then bad-mouthing them for the whole room to hear with Odette _fucking_ Mansfield the second their back is turned! Do you have _any_ idea how that makes me feel James?'

'I-'

'Of course you don't! Because you are too busy worrying about yourself. Because James Potter is going to get exactly what he wants and he doesn't care how many bridges he has to burn to get there. Well enjoy it, James. Enjoy your pathetic pining after Mansfield, while she toys you along like the child you are. I hope it lasts forever. I hope it breaks you and leaves you as nothing more than a shell of a man. I hope you never love anyone else who loves you back, so that you can know how it feels for once!'

James felt the weight of her words settle down on him, and wrap around him like iron bands across his chest. A shiver wended its way up his spine.

'Please Holly, just let me explain. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. Odette cornered _me.'_

Holly's chest was heaving. Black trails of ruined mascara ran down her face, and were smeared up her forearms where she had tried to wipe it away. She had lost her heels in the flight, and so was back to James' eye level.

'Just tell me this James. This one thing, please. Did you, or did you not ask me because Odette suggested it? Did you hope that bringing me would make her jealous?'

James was proud of the way that he could always tell when Holly was lying to him. They knew each other that well. In the half-second of hesitation before he was able to answer, it appeared that he had given up the truth to Holly without so much as uttering a word. That the ability went both ways.

His world spun as she cracked him across the face with all her might once more, sending him staggering into the wall for support. When he came to his senses, his mouth was full of blood, and he was standing by himself staring stupidly down into the darkness of the Dungeons.

James traipsed over to sit by himself at the foot of the Grand Staircase. It was dotted with several other forlorn party-goers and their entourages trying haplessly to cheer them up. He saw a figure approaching and looked down at his shoes, eager to avoid notice. The last thing he needed was a bloody plate of fruit stacked on his head right now.

'Funny things, curses,' the Durmstrang student known to James only as Pot-Head mused conversationally.

'Curses?'

'Indeed. Anything is possible, if you mean it enough. I would imagine you are feeling a little tight across the chest right now, no?'

James nodded suspiciously.

'In a place so rich with magic, we must always be careful with what we say, when we bear our soul so close to the surface.'

James just grunted noncommittally. He didn't like the idea of Holly actually _meaning_ what she had said. A small, childish part of him was hoping that they could sleep all of this off, and he'd wake up tomorrow with everything right once more.

Uninvited, Pot-head took a seat next to James. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Several Durmstrang students caked in dirt from wrist to shoulder filtered in through the Entrance Hall to exchange a few brief, guttural words with Pot-head, as if they were reporting the status of some unknown work. James shot a quizzical look.

'You have had your party, now it is time for us to have ours.'

The silence waxed once more, and James put his head in his hands. He couldn't shake the clinging sinking feeling that whirled around in the pit of his stomach.

'Wide-eyed stupid,' Pot-head eventually said.

'Huh?'

'We have such a saying, in our language. Wide-eyed stupid. When you know very well, with every part of you, that what you are doing is wrong. Maybe it will get you killed, or cursed, or worse, but you do it anyway. Why? Who can say? But we do it, again and again.'

With that, Pot-head stood up to leave, making his way out towards the grounds without so much as a glance backwards. James thought long on his words as he made the weary march up to his bed, the colour drained from his night now. He'd known that Holly would say yes. He'd known that there was a spark there, waiting for an eager hand to fan it to a flame. He'd known, but refused to acknowledge it, because what was scarier than admitting to something you didn't know if you wanted to be true? He'd known that that very flame would consume him should he make known the motive behind his asking. And for what? A passing chance at a girl who wanted nothing more than to drag him along and tear down his world around him?

Perhaps Pot-head was right. James smiled a bitter smile. Wide-eyed stupid, indeed.


	8. Scalding Tempers & Burned Bridges

Number six was the least-frequented of any of the Greenhouses at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It stood a little away from the others, separate, disparate from the neatly-ordered grid that demarcated numbers one through seven. The distance was perhaps a handful of metres, a few extra steps off of the hard-packed earth that ran arterial up the centre of the yard. But it was as if that gap were interminable. A thin film of dust coated each of the windows, something that would _never_ be seen elsewhere under Professor Neville Longbottom's strict command. The door stuck fast when it closed, requiring a strong tug to free it, and eliciting many a nervous over-the-shoulder glance upon entry from those who feared being trapped within.

It was not home to the most dangerous of Hogwarts flora – that title belonged to Greenhouse Seven, with its lashing vines and poison-tipped barbs. Greenhouse Seven saw the most frequent traffic of all, if only as part of the never-ending war to ensure the plant-life didn't break free and overrun then entire school. It was not Greenhouse four – home to the smelliest and foulest, nor Greenhouse One, which housed only the most mundane and banal of magical plants, fit for the greenest of first-years. And yet, though the numbers of students at Hogwarts continued to increase year on year, the doors of Greenhouse Six remained, for the most part, stuck fast.

Naturally, this afforded the sanctuary within an almost legendary mystique. Older students swore that a student had gone missing within its glass walls a few years back. Of course, there were tales of such disappearances with every generation. Parents of current students still told stories of a small girl who vanished the year Harry Potter started…

Those spurred on by bravery, or perhaps a baser sort of urge, would take partners around the back, to the narrow gap between the Greenhouse and a store-shed riddled with cobwebs and mouldy weatherboards. A less romantic a spot one couldn't possibly imagine, but it became something of a rite of passage among those old enough to be interested, and each couple would return with a fresh tale of mysterious bumps and scrapes, and perhaps a ghostly scream coming from within the grime-spattered window panes of Greenhouse Six.

And like the countless coatings of dust and grime, the layers of the legend of Greenhouse Six continued to grow.

Frankly, James Potter didn't see what all of the fuss was about.

He'd already been in Greenhouse Six for ten minutes, and all he wanted was to get back out into the fresh air. The dappled sunlight that filtered down through the dropping, Amazonian leaves above them was turning the Greenhouse into a sauna. Students were unbuttoning shirts and shedding layers left and right. The air felt so thick and heavy that James could have chewed it, and it stuck in his nose and the back of his throat, making even the mere act of breathing a chore.

Professor Longbottom had assured them multiple times already that they must keep the doors and windows all shut tight. The students couldn't even make out details of the outside world from their glass prison. Every inch of window space that wasn't covered in lush, verdant foliage, was little more than a brilliant, hazy blur; sunlight through what might have been centuries of dust.

A bead of sweat trickled down into James' eye, and he joined Fred in fastening his tie about his forehead in a makeshift sweatband. And to Merlins darkest dungeon with anyone who said he looked stupid.

If anything good could be said to have come from their situation, it was that the enervating miasma born of the heat and humidity was unifying in the discomfort it caused. Students in black robes cast _Aguamenti_ charms for those in blue. And the mottled greys and browns of Durmstrang lent spare Dragonhide gloves to their neighbours to be used as fans in an attempt to generate some current in the stagnant air. But perhaps the most unifying thing of all was the shifty, unsettled looks that the students were all casting towards the strange potted plants set before them.

'The _Sanocultus_ plant,' Professor Longbottom boldly announced. Contrary to the students, the Professor looked to be thriving in the unnatural heat. His shirtsleeves were pulled back to reveal forearms caked with dirt, and just enough of his shirt buttons were undone to bring the more adventurous girls to stare. 'Aren't they beautiful?'

James couldn't possibly have disagreed more. He, Fred, Tristan and Clip were staring at what appeared to be a burnt and blackened knobbly twig about the length of his own forearm, jutting forlornly up from a handful of thick, gloopy mulch. Sitting proudly atop this barren twig, like a splay of leaves atop a tropical palm, was a cluster of pink, squishy appendages that looked rather disgustingly like human tongues. They pulsed and stirred nauseatingly on an unseen breeze. Each one was tubular, like a chubby finger, and coated in a thin film of something clear and sticky. Occasionally a fat droplet of the ichor would bead at the tip of one of the disgusting leaves and tumble down to add to the thick, churned mess of soil at its base. James was glad he'd already eaten.

'The _Sanocultus_ plant is native to a single valley, deep within the Indonesian rainforest, on the island of Borneo. Their leaves only grow for eight months of the year, and only one year in every four. It is rumoured that the Sultan of Brunei once had his Imperial court Wizards march for three weeks through the Malaysian jungle to attempt to steal a secret plantation. The resulting conflict lasted for a dozen years, and saw the downfall of the entire Brunei court of Wizards. They say it's the reason that, to this day, witches and wizards are still outlawed in the Kingdom of Brunei, for the shame and embarrassment that their presence brings to the rulers.

'The reason that this rare plant is so sought-after, is for the sap, or nectar. It has an array of potent healing properties, unparalleled by any other single source known to wizardkind. Tales of mystical Fountains of Youth have been tied to unwitting travellers who have stumbled across the clearings in which these plants grow and drank from nearby streams. This sap, however, is hallucinogenic, and highly addictive, so these plants are incredibly strictly regulated by the Indonesian Ministry. Thankfully, Headmistress Renshaw has been able to secure us a healthy young crop to nurture this year.'

'And why must we… _nurture_ zees 'orrible things?' a Beauxbatons student tossed her long mane of silver-blonde hair irritably.

' _Duh,_ can you even _read?'_ Leah Ridley was looking at her as if she were stupid. So much for the unity of the discomfited.

'That's a fair question, Miss…'

'Michaud.' The girl huffed as if everybody ought to have known her name.

'Well, for Miss Michaud, and the benefit of those who are unaware, Britain's wizarding population is currently under threat from a mysterious magical illness. The illness was first reported about eight months ago in London, and since then there have been over a hundred confirmed cases. It is a sickness unfamiliar to even the most well-read of St Mungo's Chiefs of Staff, and so far it has no cure. Our wards are filling up with those known as the Infected – witches and wizards suffering from a range of symptoms from disappearing limbs to inability to speak. They say there has even been a case of a wizard being Torn from his magic.'

The very concept brought forth a terrified shudder from the gathered students. James couldn't think of anything more unbearable.

'There's basically nothing we know about the sickness. Professor Ellfrick and I have been sending them every tincture and poultice we can think of, but none seem to have an effect. The only thing known for certain, is that, while no two people have the same symptoms, every one of the Infected suffers from fits of rabid rage and inhuman strength, after which they cannot remember a thing, making them incredibly dangerous to be around. There have been no deaths reported yet, but disappearances around St Mungo's are at an all-time high. Staff are refusing to work. Just yesterday, the Ministry mandated Steelhearts patrol the wards. Ostensibly as protection from the Infected, but more than likely to ensure the staff don't abandon their post.'

'Meanwhile, Dorian Alder, the only wizard who may have known something about all of this, has vanished off of the face of the earth,' Clip piped up.

'There are those who see maleficence in coincidence,' Professor Longbottom conceded. 'But I am not one, not in this instance. People will start tying the two things together, and someone will throw the Desecrator in there, and all of a sudden it's back to full-scale panic. You'd think a generation that fought its way out from the shadow of a Dark Lord might have a bit more spine than that…'

'Yes, I understand your country is inept at enforcing her laws, but what does this have to do with these most _revolting_ plants?' the Michaud girl snapped impatiently.

James watched as the insult slid right over Neville. The corner of his eye twitched when she called the plants revolting, and when he picked up his trowel to gesture, the grip was fierce.

'Do they teach you _anything_ at that school of yours?' Leah leapt in again. 'People are sick. We have a plant to make them better. Would you like me to write it down? Honestly, it's a wonder you can dress yourself in the morning.'

A round of chuckles were poorly stifled by those in black robes. The Beauxbatons students even managed to bristle as one entity, unanimously casting dirty looks down their noses at all and sundry. Somehow, the gaps between their seats at the table stretched instantly wider.

A comment like that ought to have earned Leah a detention at least. Almost certainly a hefty house-point deduction. This year was all about building international magical ties, as Renshaw reminded them at every opportunity. Professor Longbottom was definitely _not_ smiling as he placed the trowel gently back on the table.

'Now, I know it's hot in here class, but bear with me. If everyone wants to roll up their sleeves – you won't need gloves – I'll show you how to milk these beauties.'

James wasn't the only one in the room who gagged.

As the lesson dragged on, James tried his hardest to fade more and more into the background and let his friends take charge of the various fondling, stroking and frankly disturbing caressing manoeuvres involved in harvesting the sap from the leaves of the plant. They seemed happy enough, with Fred and Tristan making the sort of jokes Cassie would have deemed "crass and disgusting" at the rate of a dozen a minute. Tristan was enjoying it entirely too much.

'Hey, I think this one likes you Freddy,' Tristan laughed as a fat globule of sap slid forth from the tip of one of the plants appendages into a waiting phial. Fred's olive skin was taking on a grey pallor in revulsion.

'Can you imagine the girls having to do this?' Clip's face was lit up with gleeful malice.

'Well I can tell you this, Chloe ought to know what she's doing at least.'

The small tinkle of breaking glass drew Professor Longbottom's swift ire as Fred dropped his full phial amid what James could only describe as a fit of shock, revulsion and appreciation.

'Speak- speaking of the girls,' Fred wheezed, when he finally regained his breath.'

Three sets of eyes turned instantly towards James. He should have known this was coming.

'It was just an argument,' he grumbled, holding up his hands defensively.

 _It was just an argument,_ he told himself. That's all, nothing major. He could fix it… couldn't he?

' _Just_ an argument?' Fred spluttered. 'I heard she hexed Georgia Braithwaite into a pineapple!'

'I heard she slapped Viola Greengrass so hard, her twin Anthony felt it,' Tristan added. 'The girl's on a warpath.'

Clip was nodding vigorously. 'I heard she _ate_ a first-year's pet owl… raw.'

'She'll come around.' The lack of conviction in his voice was glaringly obvious.

'You're going to talk to her, then?' Tristan asked.

'Well I can't very well just let her hate me forever.'

'You can, and you should.'

'Fair warning, I'm stealing your bed when she kills you,' Clip added helpfully.

'Pity you've still got that rubbish old broom,' Fred mused. 'Otherwise I'd be claiming that.'

'She'll be _fine._ It was just a misunderstanding. You were there, Fred. You saw Odette swoop down on me. I couldn't do anything.'

'I saw your eyes light up the instant you set them on her. Sure you looked terrified, but don't think you hid that smile from me. It was the face of a man awaiting death or glory; probably both. Like you'd just manage to sneak a Decoy Detonator into Headmistress Renshaw's knickers and were waiting for the explosion.'

'Is this a conversation you would like to share with the class, Mister Weasley?' Professor Longbottom had done his own swooping, bearing down upon them silent as a shadow. The twinkle in his eye and the smile tugging at the corner of his lips belied his stern tone.

'Oh, erm, hello Professor.' Fred was failing dismally to sidle beneath the bench and out of sight.

'I once cut the head from a giant snake with a sword,' the professor announced out of the blue. Thinking this was some sort of hint of his punishment, Fred let out a whimper. 'I marshalled an army of students in a school under Death Eater control, but there are some things that even I am not brave enough – or stupid enough to do. Or say. I suggest you take this into consideration, Mister Weasley.'

Fred was nodding vigorously.

'Sir, have you come to pay your last respects to James?' Tristan asked with a cheeky grin. 'He's going to try and apologise to Holly. We're just divvying up his possessions at the moment. Would you like a dozen copies of _Wild Witches in Heat_ magazine?'

James made an indignant sound somewhere between "erk", and "hermph" – he possessed no such thing. Professor Longbottom looked down at him with raised eyebrows.

'Perhaps it's time I had a talk with your father about a thing or two.'

'Honestly Professor, somebody needs to.' James glared daggers as Clip got in on the "fun".

'On a serious note James, you really ought to make amends with Miss Brooks. She has been most upset.'

'How do _you_ know about all of that?' James mumbled sullenly.

'Miss Brooks has had a long-standing passion for Herbology, and happens to be among my best – and favourite – students. She came to me yesterday seeking advice, and, perhaps just an ear to listen.'

'She did? What- what did she say?' If Professor Longbottom could put in a good word-

'She said that she wished you weren't Harry Potter's son, so nobody would care when she splattered your insides from here to the Quidditch Pitch.'

'Oh.'

'She went on to say that if you _were_ stupid enough to try and approach her that she would – and I quote – "reach down into that stupid mouth, yank out your heart and feed it to the Squid".'

'Sounds like she's taking it well then,' Fred gibed.

Professor Longbottom ran a hand through his tousled hair, pursing his lips for a moment, clearly in thought. Around them, the chorus of uncomfortable grunts and groans announced the continuing fixation with the disgusting _Sanocultus_ plants. A few seats down Leah and Rosalie took turns glaring across at the Michaud girl and her blue-clad posse.

'The fact that she is so upset likely just means she cares. I didn't have a lot of experience with this carry-on when I was at school, but I rather think she might have fancied you James, and I believe she was under the impression that you returned the sentiment.'

James felt his mouth twist in discomfort. He had thought long and hard about this very subject on that sleepless night following the ball. It had been something he was afraid to confront before the fact, but now he found himself unable to do anything but.

It had seemed a concept so foreign, before this whole episode. Before all of the dressing-up and nervous glances, the dancing and breathlessness and private moments kept hidden within a crowd of hundreds. _Had_ he fancied Holly? Is that what his feelings had been? He enjoyed spending time with her, certainly. She had been the first one to pop into his head when he thought about attending the Ball. But that was because he felt most comfortable around her, wasn't it? He always knew she'd laugh at his stupid jokes, and frown when he droned on about Quidditch, and huff when he'd reach over and tug the braid from her mouth. Whether they were reading or exploring or just sitting side-by-side next to the Lake, he'd always been comfortable, and content with what lay between them.

At what point, then, had that become not enough? A line had clearly been drawn – in her mind at least – and a silent ultimatum had been given to James. He'd thought on this long into the night, defending himself _to_ himself from every angle he could think of. It wasn't fair for her to have thrust this upon him; he couldn't possibly have known if she never told him. But, he had finally gathered the courage to admit to himself, deep down he _had_ known. He wasn't sure when he figured it out; somewhere between the girls' reaction to Fred's book, the genuine, glowing excitement in Holly's eyes when he asked her to the Ball, or the childlike hurt when he had first hugged Rain. Or perhaps it hadn't been until Odette had begun that fateful march towards him, and that small voice within him had urged her on.

But somewhere, amongst all of that, it had fallen into place. He hadn't recognised it at the time, there had been no "Eureka", or shining epiphany. It had been with cloak and dagger that the chaos-seeking voice within him dispatched of the hitherto-implacable innocence that had shielded him from such a dilemma as this.

He had broken out in cold sweats, lying in his bed that night, having come to this realisation. The knowledge that wilful ignorance would no longer ever be enough. That every single interaction he had was going to be weighed and measured, calculated and scrutinized, shared and wielded by others to make this one jealous, or garner a reaction from another. Even more so because of who he was. The loss of innocence was terrifying, even more so because the face that replaced it was so malicious in his mind, the promises that it offered so daunting.

He had lain there that night, as far from sleep as he had ever been, trapped in his own mind with none for company but that mad voice. The hours until dawn had seemed to stretch forever, but sometime around the rising of the sun, that voice had given him peace. It had allowed him to face, and to admit, what he had been hiding from for so long.

'I think I fancy her.'

Clip let out a long, low whistle. Tristan flashed Fred a smug look and held out his hand expectantly.

'Well, son,' Professor Longbottom said with the hint of a smile. 'In that case, here's a little advice for you. During the Battle of Hogwarts, I accidentally clipped a girl called Hannah Abbot with a Jelly-legs Jinx. She stumbled halfway down the second-floor corridor before being hit by an errant Death Eater curse and falling to the ground. I thought I'd killed her, and it wasn't until the Battle was over that I learned she had, in fact, survived. For five years, I was too afraid to so much as meet her eye because of what I'd done, until one day we chanced to meet in the Leaky Cauldron. Over more than a few Butterbeers the truth finally came out, and twelve months later we were married. Just think, all of the distress I could have saved if I'd just plucked up the courage to approach her in the first place.'

'No, not Holly,' James found himself saying to the group. '…Odette.'

Fred pumped his fist and snatched a small purse back from Tristan. Clip's eyebrows were locked in a steady march up to his hairline.

'Oh. Well then.' Professor Longbottom appeared entirely caught off-guard. 'There's not a lot more I can say about that, other than Miss Mansfield seems by all accounts to be a… piece of work, I believe is the term. I also believe she is otherwise romantically engaged, and so I worry that you might not be setting yourself up for failure.'

Professor Longbottom gave James a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before carrying on around the group, off to reprimand Rosalie for mimicking something highly inappropriate with one of the _Sanocultus_ plant's "leaves".

In his wake, Holly's words echoed in James' head. _I hope you never love anyone else who loves you back._

'Blimey,' Fred breathed, tucking a fat purse of Galleons into his pocket. 'Took you long enough. Proud of you though James.'

'Yea,' Tristan sulked. 'Real thrilled.'

'We can't always control what we want, you know.' Cat's appearance startled James all over again. She had filled the void left by Professor Longbottom, and now was practically breathing into James' ear. Her long, silvery hair pooled on the table before him. She seemed entirely unfazed to be dragging it through a small mound of potting mix.

'You can't tell Holly!' James gasped. 'Please, she'll kill me! Twice!'

'Oh don't worry James, I wouldn't do that.' She leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder. She smelled of freshly mown lawns. 'People don't listen to me when I tell them these things, anyway.'

'Why not?'

'Because nobody wants to believe that the things they are scared of are true. Holly will lose you by her own hand, Rain will be betrayed by the one she holds dearest, you will go to your grave never once knowing if you made the right decision. I tell them, but they choose not to hear.'

The four boys were giving Cat a quartet of _very_ odd looks.

'Ooh, do me,' Tristan offered. 'What's my sticky end?'

Cat simply smiled, reaching over to cup Tristan's cheek momentarily. 'Perhaps another time,' she sighed. 'When we are all a little more prepared to hear it.'

With that, she was gone, leaving James very firmly of the opinion that all girls everywhere were absolutely insane and that the entire human race would just be better off without the lot of them.

Unfortunately, the three remaining girls whom he deemed slightly less insane that the rest of the population were all likewise incessant that he apologise to Holly.

'You owe it to her at the very least,' Cassie admonished. 'Even someone as clueless as you ought to know that what you did showed a complete and utter disregard for Holly's feelings. I could go on all day about-'

'Cassandra, darling,' Tristan cut in. 'You already have.'

Cassie threw James one more glare and crossed her arms pointedly.

'It will do her good to let out some anger on you,' Cat mused. 'It upsets me so to see her distraught. I think she has earned the release.'

That hardly sounded encouraging.

'I just feel bad for the small part I might have played,' Rain drawled softly. Though her dismissive tone and disinterested gaze told an utterly different story. 'But I will say this. Every minute of every day, people are watching you, James Potter. Intently. They study your strengths and dissect your weaknesses. They will analyse every swift vengeance you bring upon your enemies, but perhaps equally importantly, they will be awed by the way you treat those whom you care about. For if there is a truly Dark force out there preparing to work against you, the one thing it will not be able to fathom is the bond shared between friends.'

On her last word, Rain leaned forward to rest her hand upon James' across the table. Her eyes came alive, and James stared deep into their sea-green, crystalline depths.

'It's like they're all secretly on a team,' Fred whispered none-too-quietly, shattering the reverie. 'As soon as you upset one girl, they all turn against you. Is there some sort of silent code you all pass around? Or do you just all share one mind?'

'Couldn't you three talk to her?' James practically pleaded. 'Maybe steal her wand before I talk to her. I do like my insides being, well, _inside.'_

'She's already not talking to us,' Cassie replied. 'Believe me, I'd much rather be over there empathising with Holly and plotting a most vicious revenge upon your sorry self, but she won't so much as countenance any of our presence. Evidently, just by existing, we have taken your side in this. She was your friend to begin with. The four of us never got on particularly well, to be honest. Though it pains me to admit it, you were the glue keeping this ragged crew together, James Potter.'

'Well, that and the fact that together, we have already taken down a crazed, Imperiused Auror and a pack of Ancient Evil Guardians of an entire civilisation,' Tristan added. 'Let's not sell ourselves short here.'

'The point is, we are a team. And we need all of us together, otherwise it's just not the same.'

'Alright, I'll do it,' James finally conceded. 'But if she kills me, you all have to tell my parents you were the ones who caused it.'

This exchange had taken place on Monday, and it took James until Thursday to rack up the courage to approach Holly, in the double Defence class that the Gryffindors shared with Slytherin.

They were practising the Shield Charm, and James had achieved a healthy enough competency to give him some faith in his ability to defend himself should his encounter go horribly wrong. He'd not been foolish enough to attempt to partner with Holly for the exercise. That task had fallen to an uppity Beauxbatons boy with golden hair who smiled too much and had an irritating tendency of working a flex of his muscles into almost every movement he made. James took great joy in seeing him constantly hit the floor, his Shield Charm shattered by the sheer power of Holly's magic.

Unfortunately, this did little to mend the swiftly-developing divide forming between the Hogwarts and Beauxbatons students.

The Michaud girl, whom James had learned was named Constance, eventually had enough of her beau being so humiliated, and jabbed her wand angrily at a nearby table, overturning it and sending a stack of parchment scattering about the room.

'Enough!' she screamed in Professor Meadows' direction. 'Zis is unfair! How can you let this… this _salope_ do this! She is obviously cheating!'

Professor Meadows had been leaning up against her desk, massaging the remaining half of her missing leg. Upon hearing the commotion, she froze, straightening slowly and fixing Constance Michaud with a _very_ level stare.

Next to James was a pair of Durmstrang students. Two of the ones who wore only black, and never talked to anybody who wasn't dressed identically. A smile quirked the corner of one of their mouths. It was the most emotion James had seen them show all lesson.

Silence descended on the room, as they unanimously paused to appreciate the stare-down underway between the Professor and Michaud and her group of hangers-on. The only sound was the smacking of Professor Meadows' bright pink lips as she continued to chew her gum.

'Now, _girl,_ I'm not sure what limp-wristed, weak-kneed, childish magic they try and pass of as Defence where you're from, but here at Hogwarts we do things properly.'

The Professor had walked up to stand face-to-face with Constance. Meadows was the shorter of the two, but somehow she seemed to be towering over the Beauxbatons student.

'Now I see your behaviour matches your magical ability,' Meadows gestured to the overturned desk and scattered parchment. 'So I'll have you back here, tonight, for detention, to clean up my classroom. And if I _ever_ hear you calling my students names like that again, you'll learn real quick why Hogwarts still has chains hanging from the ceiling in the dungeons. Are we understood, Miss Michaud?'

'You cannot put me in detention!' Constance huffed, spinning on her heel and marching towards the door. 'You are not my teacher, you pathetic invalid!'

With that, the door slammed shut behind her, leaving Professor Meadows staring at the spot she had vacated. The corner of Meadows' eye twitched, and she spun smoothly in place, marching back to her desk with her telling step- _thump_ echoing on the tiled floor.

' _Tishnasterin,'_ the pair of black-shirts next to James mumbled, making a strange sign with their hands in Meadows' direction. To James, the closest one turned and spoke, 'You are honoured with the tutelage of one such as her. She has much to offer. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a French girl to terrorise.'

James was too startled at having been addressed to even notice the way they slipped out of the room and through the closed door without so much as a sound.

James made sure to linger as the lesson ended. Holly always stayed late to talk to Professor Meadows. He'd catch her then, at least that way there would be a witness if things went south…

He spied his moment when Holly handed her wand to the Professor to inspect. They were huddled together near the back of the room, with Meadows poring over some tiny irregularity in the wand that James couldn't make out. His footsteps scuffed across the gritty tiles as he approached, and both turned up to face him as one, both wearing identical expressions.

Not a great start.

'Erm, hi, Professor, I was wondering if I could speak to Holly for a moment. You know… alone.'

Meadows wordlessly handed Holly back her wand. She was the one who spoke. 'Oh, I'm not sure you want that, Potter. We'll be sending what's left of you back to your family in a matchbox.'

'So I've been told.'

'I've nothing to say to you, James.'

Not really the start he'd hoping for.

'Look, Holly, I just wanted to say…' he cast an uncomfortable glance in Professor Meadows' direction. She and Holly arched an eyebrow each, in perfect tandem. James sighed, defeated. 'I just wanted to say I'm really, _really_ sorry about the other night. I had such a great time, up until…'

'Until you thought I was out of the way, and Odette came along and waggled her ass in your direction?'

'Now _there_ is a _salope,_ if ever I've seen one,' Professor Meadows added.

'Er, professor, I'm not sure that's helping,' James frowned.

'Probably not,' was her only response.

'Right. Well, I just wanted to say that I miss having you around, it's not the same without you there. We're a team, Holly. You and me, the whole eight of us. It doesn't work when one of us isn't there.'

'No, James. That's where you're wrong. We're not a _team,_ we are "James Potter and his minions", we are just things for you to use when it's convenient.'

'That's not true! We went after the Desecrator in first year, we fought the Atlanteans last year, and we did it _together,_ because that's what friends do!'

Professor Meadows was suddenly wearing a knowing smile, as if James had just stumbled right into a trap. Her presence _really_ was not helping.

'And so we arrive at the crux of it,' Holly sighed, almost sounding defeated. 'You rescued _Rain_ twice. It wasn't Cassie, or Cat, or I who was in peril. Do you want to know _why_ you rescued Rain, James? Because, to you, she's mysterious. Because when she sat down beneath the Sorting Hat, lightning leapt across the roof of the Hall. Because the castle made her sick, so that must _mean_ something. Because she was suffering a deathly curse, and she possessed a secret locket that could save her. Hell, probably even because she's an orphan. But most of all, because every time she looks at you, you go all cross-eyed and sweaty, and grin like you've just won the Galleon Draw. Because she makes your heart beat fast, but to you, that _can't_ just be because you want to see her in her knickers, it _must. Mean. Something._

'You try so damned hard to inject meaning into everything, to convince yourself, and us, that you are fighting for some higher cause, that somehow, James Potter alone is the one beacon of light that we must all follow because he is going to be the one to save us. You try so damned hard to be your father, James. But get this: there is nobody to save. There is no Dark Lord or Prophecy to fulfil, but the great James Potter can't content himself with fighting the good fight like a normal person, no.

'Where were you when I was thrown out of Slytherin and forced to sleep in the dungeons for a week? Aside from causing that situation, that is. Where were you when a group of Gryffindor fifth years stole an entire week of Cassie's homework as a _prank_ and had her in tears for twenty-four hours? Where were you when, for a whole term last year, a group of Ravenclaws would lock Cat in cupboards every chance they got because they disagreed with something her Mother published in the _Quibbler?'_

'What? I didn't even know about any of this, how was I supposed to-'

'Of _course_ you didn't know! That's my entire point, James. A _friend_ would have known. Someone who _cared_ would have known. The signs were there. But if there isn't a world to save or a grand, convoluted mystery to solve, James Potter isn't interested. And to hell with doing anything for the sake of friendship!

'We're just pieces to you, James. Just _things_ to use as you see fit, because you are looking so desperately for more meaning. You _have_ to fight the bad guys, you _have_ to have "the girl", James Potter needs to have the best, and he'll use anyone he needs to get himself there. Well, I've had enough. I never want to see you, or talk to you again James, and I mean it. My only regret is that it took me this long to work it all out!'

With that, she made to stalk off. James' mind was reeling, thoughts were crashing all around in his head, colliding and tripping over one another on their way to become words, forming a logjam somewhere near the front of his brain so that all he could do was work his mouth soundlessly, like a gaping fish.

Holly paused next to him. 'Oh, and one other thing.'

 _Crack!_

Stars reeled in his vision, and he stumbled backwards, cracking his ankle on the leg of a desk and yelping in pain. Hot blood flooded into his mouth, and by the time he could see straight again, he was left staring at a rather amused-looking Professor Meadows. The room was silent.

'She bloody hit me,' he grumbled. His hand came away from his lip coated in bright red.

'A most commendable observation, Mister Potter. Remind me to congratulate Miss Brooks on the ferocity of her right cross.'

'That hardly seemed fair.' James slunk down into the nearest chair, cradling his throbbing head in his hands.

'On the contrary, I'm sure she feels most justified in her actions. If it hurts, James, it's probably because it has the ring of truth. Nobody wants to believe the uncomfortable truths.'

'So everyone keeps telling me.'

'She worshipped you, you know. When you first arrived here. I could see it in her eyes. Reminded me of myself with… well, never mind that. She's the youngest of four daughters. Her father left when she was born, and all of her older sisters blame it on her. By all accounts she has a pretty horrid home life. When she thought she fit in here at school, it meant the world to her. She'd come to me asking for tips on how to "be cool" around James Potter. I don't know that she's ever had a lot of friends. Perhaps she got too attached, too quickly. Either way, she sees what you've done as a dire betrayal, an attack on her self-worth, which she had been tenuously building up over the past two years. I think it best if you give her time to cool off, before trying another stunt like this.'

James was shocked by the revelation of Holly's family life. He'd never known. A cold feeling gripped him, as a voice whispered: _a friend would have known._

'I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I just want to go back to being friends,' he mumbled into his hands.

'I know. The only reason I didn't let her hex you into oblivion is because you're a young boy, and I think it's entirely possible that you just might be stupid enough to have been oblivious through all of this. But you had better wise up real quick, James Potter, and start thinking about how your actions influence others, or this won't be the only bridge you burn on that road to glory you seem so intent on following.'


	9. Curt Tones & Clipped Pages

There was no time to dodge the streaking blur that raced towards him. Its shape had blossomed in James' periphery like the very wings of night itself, and he barely had time to register its presence, let alone brace for impact, as it slammed into his ribcage, sending waves of pain radiating throughout his torso.

'Gotcha!' called Fred Weasley from a dozen yards away, Beaters' bat twirling triumphantly in his hand. The carmine sash that hung from his shoulders loudly denounced him as opposition.

James had no time to banter, as the Quaffle he had been meant to catch went sailing towards the turf, right past the spot he would have occupied had it not been for Fred's pinpoint Bludger.

'Open your eyes,' James growled at Caspar Helstrom, his own Beater, who had been playing far too wide on their left flank, protecting little more than the Hufflepuff stand from Bludger attack.

He adjusted his own bright blue sash, and dived at the falling Quaffle, hand outstretched. This time, he was able to weave deftly around a follow-up strike from Fred, but not before Ava Adams, an opposing Chaser, had claimed possession in a streak of red, both sash and hair.

'Nice one Freddy!' her genuine praise was grating to James' ears as he tore off up the pitch after her.

The dropped pass would look bad. And he'd be damned if he missed out on making the Hogwarts School team for the upcoming tournament because his bloody Beater didn't know to play bunch coverage when their team had the Quaffle but the opposition controlled the Bludgers.

'Nice one, Potter!' Preston Lynch called as he zipped past on his far superior broom. 'Have fun sitting on the bench this year!'

James scowled and hunkered down, flat against the wooden handle. But he already knew he would be too late. Ava Adams sent Gemma Lewis the complete wrong way on an attempted interception, and slotted the Quaffle crisply through the lower left goal hoop, safely outside the reach of the Keeper, Anthony Harkness.

'Miss another pass like that one, Potter, and you'll be watching the rest of this trial from the sidelines.' Odette Mansfield, their team captain, swooped down specifically to berate him. James scowled back, trying to cover up the sting her words caused.

James took possession off of the restart, using hand gestures to indicate their attacking move: a rapid thrust up the left flank to draw attention, and a wide arc to the right from the third Chaser to slip open and get one-on-one with the Keeper. His teammates nodded. Selwyn MacNair of Slytherin, playing on the left, did so with his permanently-affixed scowl still in place. Gemma Lewis, his counterpart on the right, exhibited a little more aplomb.

Naturally, James had insisted on playing the Enabler position for this match; the Chaser whose job it was to direct the flow of play for the entire game and distribute the Quaffle to the Finishers to score the goals. Lillian Wood had filled the role admirably for the past six years, but with her departure, and that of the remainder of Gryffindor's fabled Hydra Chasing attack, James was eager to fill the void.

On the whistle, James began to push up the sideline, directing MacNair ahead of him as he did. He weaved in and out of the stands, using them for cover from irritatingly accurate Bludgers sent his way courtesy of Fred. He signalled to his Beaters to switch flanks, and Jennifer Redfern, a fourth-year Ravenclaw, slotted in protectively at his side. The attacks lessened instantly.

The wind was a gentle cross-tail, coming down from the castle. He estimated twenty minutes before the sun sunk below the forest, and they would lost the slight advantage that gave them. Now was their time to attack. Already three goals down, James was adamant this wouldn't turn into a rout. The electric Ava Adams was flying circles around them all. She was even making Lynch look good, James had to grudgingly admit.

On James' signal, MacNair shot forward towards the goal hoops. Adams tailed him as he passed her, but only for a moment, giving away their zone defensive scheme. Their third Chaser, a Ravenclaw second-year named Arcus Frost, began to drift upwards to intercept James.

Knowing that Frost had a slower broom even than James' own, he braced himself to make a sharp left turn, dropping his inside shoulder and tucking the Quaffle tightly beneath his right arm. Frost took the bait, having to respond early to make up for his lack of power. With his opponent now off-balance, James jerked his own broom back in the opposite direction, hard to the right. His body position made the manoeuvre a little awkward, but he was accosted by no more than Frost's scraping fingers as he darted through unharmed, turning full-tilt towards the goal hoops.

'Wow, great move James!' Ava Adams called across the pitch. Even though she was on the opposition, her unyielding positivity remained undaunted.

James now had a two-on-three, with Arcus Frost having to yank his cumbersome broom back in a wide, slow arc to join the fray. The advantage was theirs. He tore up the centre of the pitch, closing in on the hoops. He could see the hesitation in Adams' and Lynch's movements: Abandon their zones, and leave him with an open Finisher, or stay paralysed and allow him to do the job himself.

In a snap decision, Lynch bolted inwards towards James. Gemma had been drifting up that flank since the play began, ready to receive the pass in this very eventuality. But as James scanned the field, he saw her nowhere near her position, having been pushed wide repeatedly by Fred's constant barrage. He had switched flanks when James called his own Beaters to do likewise, and Caspar Helstrom wasn't even close to being able to protect Gemma.

He calculated the distance. The throw was at the very edge of his range. MacNair was out of the question – covered perfectly by Ava Adams. The opposition Keeper, Finn Wilder of Hufflepuff, was cheating left, anticipating James making a run himself.

Lynch had the angle on him, James would have to make this pass millimetre-perfect if he was to land it successfully. Even the slightest bit off-line and Lynch would intercept it as he bore down on James, and surely score at the other end.

Adjusting his weight, James leaned back and side-armed the Quaffle in Gemma's direction as hard as he could. He let it stick in his fingers a little linger upon release, adding the faintest touch of spin to it, hoping to curl it around Lynch's outstretched arms.

The throw was perfection. The streaking Quaffle kissed the tips of Lynch's fingers mockingly, before curling down in a graceful arc to drop right into the waiting arms of Gemma Lewis. The meagre crowd gave a satisfying gasp, and James whooped as Gemma was one-on-one with an out-of-position Keeper. The lower right goal hoop was hers for the-

 _Oof!_

Lynch had followed through with his course bearing down on James. As he passed by, he aimed a savage kick, collecting James in the solar plexus and knocking the wind clean from him.

Without thinking, and perhaps spurred on by his frustrations in recent days with Holly and now, on the pitch with Lynch and Odette, James lashed out in return, flinging his arm wide on reflex, and feeling a satisfying connection and grunt of pain.

The shrill screeching of the whistle froze play, with Gemma less than a second away from scoring. James spun wildly to face it, catching sight of a cascade of blood spilling from Lynch's face, where he cradled it, huddled down over his broom.

'Foul, foul!' he was screaming, his voice muffled. He was milking it for all it was worth.

Declan Hawksby, the flying instructor and referee for their trial match, tore over and issued a foul on the spot, warning James that he'd be sent off if anything similar happened again. As Ava Adams lined up to take the free shot, Lynch turned to James, blood still streaming down his chin. His teeth were tinged red as he flashed a smile, showing off a small orange wrapper that James was painfully familiar with.

Nosebleed Nougat.

Odette arrived before James could even react.

'What the fuck was that, Potter?' she roared. Her blonde hair was a flyaway mess, individual strands dancing on the breeze of their own accord. She bore an angry red scratch beneath her left eye from an earlier scuffle. It added a savage look to the mask of rage she now wore. 'You finally do something useful, and then go and piss all over it with a stupid penalty because you're too childish to just suck it up and play? How about you stop acting like a baby, stop packing a tantrum every time Lynch looks at you crossways and try and play properly. You're embarrassing us enough as it is, without pulling stupid stunts like this!

'Some of us are actually trying to take this seriously. So if you're not going to buckle up and play, then there's the sideline, get the hell off of my team and out of my stadium!'

James just sat, stunned, at the unnecessarily harsh outburst. Behind Odette's back, Lynch looked like all his Christmases had come at once. James adjusted his bright blue sash sullenly as Odette tore off, stopping only to blow a quick kiss into the stands, where a small knot of sky-blue-clad onlookers were gathered. James' grip tightened on his broom handle until his knuckles flared white. Loyal Clavet.

Ava made the penalty with ease. The game continued until Odette, fighting off a spirited effort from Albus, caught the Snitch and ended it with a win for James' team. In spite of this, the mood was anything but celebratory as they circled in to the centre of the pitch for a final team meeting.

The two teams huddled around Ava Adams at midfield. As James joined, she was beaming out at the lot of them like a mother hen surveying her brood.

'Super-magic work out there witches and wizards!' she clapped. Her curly red hair had been freed from its ponytail, and it pooled atop her shoulders in thick cascades, bouncing gently as her enthusiasm kept her on the balls of her feet. In the last of the days' light, the handful of freckles tossed across her face stood starkly against pale skin, and her eyes glowed golden with the setting of the sun. 'You're all stars to me. I wish we could _all_ be on the team together, but as Professor Hawksby said, the line-up will be announced in a weeks' time, at a meeting in the changing sheds.'

This was accompanied by a few nervous shuffles, and sidelong glances among the team hopefuls, James included.

'Now, there's just one more _teensy_ thing to do before we go.' Ava produced a bunch of small, folded parchment squares from an inner pocket of her robe, and began handing them around. 'Because this is the first year all of the Houses will be coming together to form a _school_ team, Professor Hawksby wants the captain of the team to be voted in, rather than be chosen by him. So if everyone could please write down the name of someone they want to be captain that would be super!'

'This is ridiculous,' Odette huffed, scribbling a name onto her parchment and thrusting it back into Ava's hands. She tossed her head angrily, and stalked off as if she was entirely too good for the lot of them.

'Three guesses who she wrote down,' Fred mumbled in James' ear.

The rest of the team followed suit in a more dignified manner. One-by-one they handed in their notes to Ava to be put into a small hessian sack, until James was the only one left, staring at the parchment blankly, and folding over one corner again and again.

Before the trial had begun, it would have been an easy option. The youngest House captain in years, the brightest star on the team, and, well, she was _Odette…_ James would have chosen her in a flash. He was sure plenty of his teammates still would. But her words had been beyond just frustration at a teammate, they had been deliberately vicious, the taste they left bitter in James' memory.

'Trouble deciding, James?' Ava skipped over and wrapped an arm around his shoulder as if they had been friends for years. She stared up towards the centre of the pitch, as if she was envisaging a scene against the backdrop of the first stars beginning to appear. 'That pass you made was the most awesome thing I saw all day. If you were on our team we would have _hammered_ Miss Prissy-pants.'

There was no need to ask to whom Ava was referring.

'I wanted to pick you on my team, but I wasn't _allowed._ Apparently, you were _hers._ Ooh, look, aren't the stars pretty tonight? Have you decided yet?'

James looked from Ava, down to the parchment with the folded corner in his hands, and nodded.

He wrote down the name.

His friends awaited him at the entrance to the Quidditch Stadium, and together they traipsed back up the grounds together, the moon now lighting their way as much as the sun. A gentle breeze stirred the grass at their feet and carried that musty, murky smell of the lakeshore mud along with it. The occasional hiss and rush above them announced swooping owls beginning their night's watch.

'Reckon we're a shoe-in,' Fred stated, his broom slung casually over his shoulder. Naturally he'd "forgotten" to return his bright red sash, and now wore it as a pirate-like bandana.

'Maybe,' mumbled James, less confident. 'Don't think Odette liked me smacking Lynch, though.'

'Who _cares_ about Mansfield?'

'Ooh, I know the answer to this one!' Tristan piped up with mock enthusiasm.

'It doesn't matter what your girlfriend thinks, James. She isn't picking the teams. Hell, she probably won't even be captain. Not with Miss Super-Happy-Awesome running the show. How can one person even _be_ that happy?'

'I've heard she isn't quite so many rainbows and butterflies as she seems,' Cassie added mysteriously, and then refused to elaborate further.

The group continued on in silence for a while, passing close by the Lake, where the great silhouette of the Durmstrang ship loomed in the moonlight. Her sails were furled, but the menacing school emblem, emblazoned across the hull, glowed like lambent coals, projecting a shimmering red stain out onto the blackness of the Lake.

'Something about that school just puts me ill-at-ease.' Cassie voiced what the lot of them were thinking.

'Oh, they're really quite lovely,' Cat said, sounding a little defensive.

'I don't think Pot-Head counts,' Fred replied. 'He doesn't have that _I-want-to-slip-into-your-bed-and-murder-you-while-you-sleep_ look like the rest do.'

James thought back to the pair of black-clad individuals in his Defence lesson. That was _exactly_ their look.

'Spooky, Chubby, Gangly, and Crazy.' Tristan announced. 'That's their houses. At least, that's the houses I've given them. To get in to Chubby house, you must be able to crush a man's head in your hands. For Gangly, you must be able to chase a man to the ends of the earth. Or, at least about three times around the Quidditch Pitch. To get into Spooky you have to kill someone without them even knowing they're dead yet, and for Crazy house, well… we've all seen Pot-Head.'

As if to punctuate his statement, a shrill _whoop_ went up from the direction of the ship, and an array of blood-red sparks lit the night sky. As the last embers drifted back to earth, they illuminated a train of Durmstrang students leaping head-first into the lake from the highest point of the sterncastle.

'Bloody mental,' Tristan breathed.

The path before them began to climb, and they left the students of Durmstrang to their night-time escapades. James was beginning to look forward to a hot meal and a change of clothes.

'Can't wait for the first match,' Fred said, straightening an imaginary bent twig on his broomstick. 'Then the tournament _really_ starts.'

'The tournament has _already_ started, you half-wit,' Cassie rolled her eyes. 'Just because duelling and Quidditch haven't begun, doesn't mean there aren't other activities. There's a potion-making challenge this weekend, and a monthly Best-All-Rounder competition that starts next week.'

'I've already beat three Beauxbatons lads in the Chess tournament,' Clip added. 'Five tournament points apiece.'

'The Quidditch competition is worth two _hundred_ points to the winner,' Fred countered.

'Honestly, boys. There's more to life than Quidditch and Duelling.' Cassie looked exasperated.

'Yea,' said James. 'All the boring bits in between.'

The smell from the Kitchens was mouth-watering, and as the group mounted the steps to the Entrance Hall, James could already feel his stomach rumbling. But Tristan grabbed his sleeve mere metres from the House tables, with a worried look on his face.

'Oh, I totally forgot, Professor Longbottom asked me to, er, tuck in his _Sanocultus_ plants tonight.'

'I don't remem- _ow!'_ James was cut off by a sharp stamp on his toe.

'Well I shan't be joining you,' Cassie said. 'Those things make me uncomfortable.'

'Just because you've never seen a _nngh-_ '

Tristan was cut off, as Rain tilted her head ever so slightly to the left, and he seemed to lose all ability to speak.

'Ooh, can I come along?' Cat asked excitedly.

'I should think not, Kattala,' Rain responded. 'I believe the boys desire our absence.' She flashed James a knowing wink, before looping her arms through Cassie and Cats' and marching them off to the Ravenclaw table. As they receded, Tristan sucked in a mighty burst of breath.

'Bloody hell, that's uncomfortable. Alright lads, over here.' He led them to a shadowy recess behind a stone torch-stand. They fought the cobwebs and spiders for space, cramming into the nook shoulder-to-shoulder to stay out of sight.

'First of all, I'd like to start the session by thanking James for his valiant sacrifice and noble contribution to the sacred cause.'

'What the-' Clip began, but James had a feeling he knew where this was going.

'We all know that the most fearsome and powerful of all Guardians of the Sacred Text was one Holly Brooks. With her self-worth now shattered into pieces around her feet-'

'Tristan…'

'Her confidence, her morale, her very will to fight torn from her breast-'

'We get it!' James barked, more than a little snappishly.

Tristan at least had the decency to look sheepish. 'Sorry mate. The point is, Holly was the only one _really_ guarding the Book. Cassie couldn't win a duel against the wind, I'm not sure Cat even knows what the book _is,_ and Rain… well she probably has a full plate of brooding and being mysterious to keep her occupied. There's never been a better opportunity to take it back!'

'I dunno…' Clip began. 'Cassie's pretty handy with that Dragon Book, and I don't think we'd like Cat when she's angry.'

Fred was squirming uncomfortably, clearly still on the fence.

'Come _on_ ,' Tristan urged. 'James broke one girl's heart, Clip nigh on had the same happen to him, and Fred, you spent the night farting fireworks. That damned Ball could not have gone much worse. I hear there's another one at the end of the year. If we don't pull our act together by then, one of us is going to get throttled, I can guarantee it. Personally, my Galleons are on James.'

James was surprised at how much his own sentiments had changed on the subject. He was painfully aware that he was out of his depth. Out of his depth with Odette, and the way she so effortlessly teased him along. Even though he _knew_ that was all she was doing, he couldn't shake her from his thoughts. He was out of his depth with Holly, and hadn't even the foggiest of clues about how to make amends there. He desperately wanted to solve both situations, though he was beginning to get the feeling that the two outcomes were going to be mutually exclusive.

All he knew for sure, was that he had had enough of blundering around without a clue. He'd tried his best, and failed spectacularly. Now, it was time to get help form the experts.

'I'm in,' he said with conviction. 'How do we find it?'

Tristan had to pause his celebration as the scuffing of footsteps outside their cubicle announced others in the vicinity. All four boys held their breath, and female voices soon echoed up from the Slytherin dungeons.

'I imagine she'll think twice before terrorising the "ickle firsties" next time,' came a haughty drawl that seemed oddly familiar.

'Honestly, who just leaves their laundry about to dry, like a _Muggle?_ I mean, unless they _wanted_ their knickers to be framed and spread about the common room.'

This voice was more than familiar, and James mouthed to the group: _Lily._

'I think it improves the décor, personally.' The other voice was familiar now: Nerissa Sayre; Lily's best-friend-cum-rival. 'The bra on the bust of Salazar was my favourite touch.'

James and Fred shared a proud smile. It sounded as if Lily was fitting in just fine.

A third pair of footsteps approached, this time from the direction of the Great Hall.

'Potter! Sayre! A little birdy told me you've been messing with my laundry.'

'Well you really mustn't leave it draped all over the place like that,' Lily stated matter-of-factly.

From where James was hidden he could make out the three shadows on the flagstones. This third girl was head and shoulders taller than either Lily or Nerissa. He slid his hand in his pocket, feeling for his wand.

'It was on my bed,' came the growled response.

'Oh was it? I often get so turned-about when I'm strolling through the fourth-year dormitory.' Nerissa's tone was oozing with mock-innocence.

 _A fourth year!_ James made to step out and help, but Tristan held his arm, signalled to wait.

'If you've so much as moved my things an _inch,_ I swear…'

'Oh put your wand away darling,' Lily reprimanded. 'You're not going to Hex us here, a stone's throw from the Great Hall. I can almost wave to the Headmistress from here.'

The older girl's shadow turned back and forth between the two first years. James could see her wand levelled at the pair of them. His own was held loosely in his fingertips. His whole body was coiled, but Tristan's grip remained firm.

'You two are _dead,_ ' hissed the figure, brushing past them roughly, stalking past James' hiding spot. He noticed a flash of dark blonde hair, and she was gone.

'Oh, and I do love your autumn wardrobe,' Nerissa called to her retreating back. 'Some of those dresses will really work to cover up your _fuller_ figure.'

A howl of rage echoed up from the dungeons, and the two girls cackled gleefully. James watched their shadows retreat into the warm glow leaking out from the Great Hall. He hadn't realised, but he was grinning ear to ear.

'Now, where were we,' Fred continued. 'I'm starving. We need to find the Book before we can steal it back.'

Tristan, who was looking decidedly thoughtful, held up a hand to the group. 'Leave that bit up to me,' he assured them. 'I think I might have a lead.'

But whatever his lead may have been, it didn't come to fruition over the next week. The school spent most of that time settling in to what was to be the new normal for this year. The awkward dance of feeling out the newcomers was coming to a close. Students accustomed themselves to budging up in classrooms, and having more than the usual spread of accents piping up to answer questions.

The goal of the whole Tournament, much like the parent Tri-Wizard tournament going on at Beauxbatons, was to strengthen international magical relations, and foster lifelong friendships that would last across the world. So far, there seemed little enough sign of either happening, as the students seemed reluctant to cross the bridge from accepting to amiable. Like oil and water, they were. And no matter how hard Renshaw might try to shake the phial, they simply refused to cooperate. They were _immiscible,_ Cassie had once called it.

James had gone to the library to look up what that meant, but a group of Beauxbatons students were crowding his favourite corner, so he'd decided not to bother.

Six nights after the Hogwarts Quidditch trial, James lay staring at the ceiling of his four-poster bed. Clip had been snoring softly for hours now; Fred, less softly. Emry Sameer had been up and about for his twice-weekly sleepwalk, and Eldon Prescott was hugging his pillow like his life depended on it. As usual, Anthony Harkness lay perfectly still, not even his chest appearing to move. He slept the sleep of the dead.

Such were the things James noticed on nights such as this; when nerves or anxiety prowled the foot of his own bed, reaching in beneath the covers to jolt his heart each time he came close to sleep. His sheets were damp from the waves of cold sweats that broke out every time that demon attacked, whispering to him that he was certainly not good enough to have made the team. Tomorrow was to end in embarrassment.

Some time between two and three, James had had enough. He fished around in his trunk, drawing out an old friend. Shimmering, silvery fabric sifted through his fingers like essence of quicksilver itself. It made the faintest hiss as it did so; music to James' ears.

He donned the Cloak and a pair of socks, and slipped silently from the room, leaving his roommates to complete their nightly rituals in peace.

This late, not even the hardiest of the night-owls were still studying, and James went unchallenged through to the Portrait, tugging the Cloak over his head as he did so.

The moment he pushed open the portrait door, he was hit by a barrage of grating sound.

'-frankly _far_ too late for any sort of _decent_ young lady to be prowling the corridors at night. Oh, and here comes the culprit now, I've half a mind to run and fetch-'

' _Rain?'_

'Hello James Potter.'

She greeted him as calmly as if they were meeting for lunch. As if she had been _expecting_ him to arrive. His head, once again poking out the top of the Cloak, spun back and forth between Rain and the Fat Lady on a swivel.

'You two are entirely too young to be carrying on with such namby-pamby! When I was your age-'

'What are you doing here?' James hissed, ignoring the bombardment the Fat Lady continued to rain down upon them.

'Waiting for you, obviously.'

She was standing there, in her mint-green pyjamas and an amused smile flitting about the corners of her lips. Her hair was braided loosely for sleep, but it looked as though she had done nothing of the sort. There was not a single crease out of line; her eyes were bright, incandescent in the sparse torchlight, and there was something tucked under her left arm.

She gestured that they should head down into the castle, and James agreed. The Fat Lady was becoming so shrill he thought she might soon break the nearby windows with her voice alone. He opened up the Cloak and offered Rain a spot inside.

'Oh my. Those are most… striking.'

James' cheeks seared with embarrassment as his vibrant red Gryffindor boxer shorts were on display.

'Wasn't expecting company,' he grumbled.

Unfazed, Rain slipped beneath the Cloak and looped an arm through his own. They disappeared together.

'Just like _they_ used to! Wait- wait a minute, I know you! That face, that simpering smile! You used to wait out here for hours. You're-'

The Fat Lady suddenly went silent, and James sighed with relief. This close to Rain he needed to pay attention just to keep one foot in front of the other, the fewer pointless distractions the better.

They descended through the castle largely in silence. James was content to let Rain lead the way, she obviously had a destination in mind. The Castle, for its own part, let them pass in silence. Torches made for flickering, shifting eyes, watching their progress even through the fabric of the Cloak. The heat on James' neck began to feel like eyes, and every turn they made, the feeling redoubled. The pools of moonlight through which they waded waited with eager hands to grab at any exposed flash of ankle that might peek out for the slightest of moments. Even the flagstones themselves seemed to note their passing, the padding of socked feet atop stone seeming to echo through the arched hallways and whisper knowledge of their presence.

Under the Cloak the air was hot and close. James could smell her fresh breath, and that almost cathartic scent of a downpour on a hot day that she seemed to exude this close. He noticed a familiar gold chain against the honey skin of her neck, and followed it down to the murky blue pendant which hung high on her breast. The pendant that they had fought so hard for at the end of last year. And right next to it, the very reason they had fought. Just at the point where her chest bulged against the silk of her pyjamas, the wicked black scarification that was her very own fight for her life.

'Some would consider it quite forward to spend so much time staring so pointedly down a lady's shirt.' Rain's smile was playful.

'Some would consider it quite forward to be standing outside a man's bedroom door at three in the morning,' James countered.

'Point made,' Rain smiled.

'How have you recovered?'

'Do you know, you are the first person who's asked?'

Instead of elaborating, she guided them through a nearby door of panelled wood. Her disembodied hand reached out to shove it aside soundlessly on oiled hinges. The room was unfamiliar to James; used by older students, for Defence, he guessed. Rows of desks stood stoically, casting stretching shadows against the pale light that slunk in through the windows facing towards distant mountains.

There was something more forbidden about entering an empty classroom. The way it stood deathly still now, in contrast to the life that filled it during daylight hours. It was almost as if he were intruding into a private room; the hallways were his to own once the sun went down, but here, in this quiet space with the air so still, he was an impostor.

The two of them sat atop adjacent desks, facing one another. The heavy door was closed behind them, but despite that, James' movements were tentative, for fear of breaking the church-like serenity.

The Cloak pooled now on his lap, causing his legs to dangle in and out of apparent existence. Opposite him, Rain sat straight-backed, her posture perfect as ever. Her hands were folded gracefully in her lap, one legged crossed over the other. Like a princess, James thought. It was hard to remember that she was, in fact, an orphan.

'I have recovered well enough,' she continued their conversation. 'Each victory grants the gift of experience. Each battle anneals the bonds that tie us, and so each time I grow stronger.'

She certainly looked it. No longer pale and emaciated, no longer the haunted gaze and gaunt cheeks. Instead of hanging off her frame, her clothes looked to be under a little duress, as new curves strained the seams. _Slender_ was no longer quite the word that applied. Not that James would make the mistake of voicing that opinion again.

'Well here's to a year where nobody's life is at risk.' He raised an imaginary glass of Butterbeer in salute. 'Except, perhaps, from Hagrid's cooking.'

'Tell me of your summer, James Potter. I have been remiss in not asking. Sometimes, I forget what it is like to have a family. Please, remind me.'

What followed was a rigorous cross-examination of James' summer from beginning to end. Rain, it seemed, was particularly interested in any and all vacations the family had taken. Quidditch matches they had gone to see, friends they had visited, outings to Diagon Alley. There were few enough of the sort, he told her, what with the threat of the Infected looming over everything. It was really only his father who had left the house for any extended periods of time.

But this, apparently, was equally interesting to Rain. James began to feel a little sorry for her, as she asked persistent questions about Harry's every move. He figured she must miss out on all of this, perhaps trapped in a dirty orphanage or a loveless foster-home. Her eyes blazed with a familiarity he had never seen before as he spoke about his father; that captivated look was so alluring that he made extra effort to put in all of the information he could. He ended by telling her about Harry's frequent trips to the spot where they had hidden Teddy. They couldn't afford to have him called out as being Infected, not after the calamities leading up to Harry and the Weasleys' exit from the Ministry.

It was here Rain paused, and handed James the item she had been carrying with her. It was a clipping from the _Prophet,_ the edition for the coming day. How she'd got a hold of it he hadn't a clue.

 _Dorian Alder Spotted – Reports_

 _The Prophet brings an exclusive story of the sighting of none other than Dorian Alder – famed Researcher of Magical Ailments, Curses and Maladies – long thought to have been kidnapped, or worse. Sources say he was seen on a remote island in the Shetlands, uninhabited but for an ostracized colony of Wizards and Witches, held there under Quarantine and possessing a range of untreatable illnesses. A now-healthy Colonist describes Alder flawlessly, with a hooded accomplice…_

James looked up at Rain, confused. The light of false dawn was beginning to burgeon in the sky without.

'Does this mean anything to you, James Potter?'

The moment had the tense, pregnant feel of being the very reason Rain had been waiting for him outside the common room. Rain wasn't the type to while away the wee hours recalling their respective holidays for the mere enjoyment of it.

'No… should it? I mean- that's the wizard everyone is talking about, right? They thought he was dead. His wand washed up on a beach somewhere. Looks like he escaped.'

Rain was silent for a long moment. Her gaze fixed intently upon him. The princess's poise was replaced by an unwavering examination.

'It looks that way, indeed.'

As she spoke, the sun crested the mountaintops far to the east, and the first rays of light blasted in through the window. They silhouetted Rain, and caught the subtle red of her hair in particular, making it shine so bright that it seemed to James the whole room was on fire.


	10. Interlude I

Staccato cracks of lightning and the tumbling bass of rolling thunder warred for supremacy in the night sky. Their battleground stretched from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see. Clouds hung low and close where they could be discerned through the rain-soaked inky blackness. Fitful flashes of light, way up in the heavens, danced behind this thick blanket, partially hidden from view as if seen through smoke-stained glass. It was just enough light to set fire to the driving rain and sleet, turning the droplets intermittently into tiny burning crystals hurtling towards the earth. They threw themselves into the ankle-deep water that now pooled above the muck and slush that had been a meagre yard. When the door of the adjacent hovel was flung open, they dashed hungrily into the abode, leaping across the threshold and stretching ever further, in their growing numbers, into the room.

And all the while, the clouds grew thicker, and the heavens seemed to close in.

A whip-crack of lightning so loud as to send a man staggering illuminated the cause of the battered door. Two figures struggled against one another, in a desperate melee. They slipped and tumbled in the mud. They grappled and grunted and howled to the merciless night who tore the screams from their throats as soon as they were uttered. It was hard to tell from the ferocity of the rain, but it appeared a touch of red began to mingle with the brown at their feet, mashed and swirled in the mud like some artists' mad creation.

Suddenly, a flash of light from the ground this time, and one body flew towards the house. It ragdolled through the open door and crashed to fall still in that puddle of growing rain.

The clouds rumbled their displeasure, and the second figure leapt through the opening, bundling up the body and slamming the door shut in one movement.

Outside, the rain continued to hammer down.

The sudden stillness caught Harry Potter by surprise, and the half-second it had taken for him to adjust had almost cost him. The figure in his arms gave a mighty surge, and broke one arm free. It battered Harry's face and head, tore at his clothing, wrenching free a small bundle of sodden greenery that splashed to their feet, instantly trod into the mucky water as their awkward bear-hug of a dance continued.

 _Just a few minutes… more._

Without warning, the figure in his arms let loose a cry of the dying, and a fiery outburst tore forth from his breast, knocking Harry back, searing away all water in the room instantly, and leaving a charred black scuff on the floor where his greenery had fallen.

The figure stilled, drew one shuddering breath, and collapsed on the tiny cot in a tumble of arms and legs.

Once again, it was over.

 _But for how long, this time?_

In the moment's reprieve, Harry drew his wand, tending to the scratches and cuts that the fight had left him with. The clinging mud he scraped free by hand. He made sure the figure on the bed wasn't too uncomfortable, and took a half-step back – it was all the tiny room would allow – to take a seat on the only chair. It groaned a warning as he lowered his weight.

He stretched a stiff leg, aching from a long walk over rugged terrain, and came into contact with the wall opposite. He rolled his shoulders, to loosen muscles tense from hurrying across an entire island with a time bomb of a wizard as his only company, and his elbows brushed the dirty walls. There was no source of light, save for the occasional flash of lightning flaring outside. But he could see well enough. He could see the stretching shadows looming in every corner, and the way they groped forward for every inch of ground they could take, fleeing only reluctantly when the lightning burst. The moment it was gone, they were back again, eager to claim more and more of the tiny space, encroaching in Harry's periphery everywhere he looked.

A violent gust of wind made the whole structure shudder, as if suddenly repulsed by its inhabitants. The rain that lashed the rooftop began to find ways through the shoddy roofing, adding a steady _drip, drip_ to the orchestra of the night. Where the water pooled near the edges of the room, the shadows reached out hungrily to lap it up, growing their territory and making the room seem smaller by the minute. No, not a room. Not even close.

This was a cell.

Eventually, his partner woke, and Harry was there to offer him support. He gently eased him to a sitting position, and trickled an _Aguamenti_ Charm between his lips.

Dull eyes scanned the room. There was that flicker of familiarity as they noticed Harry. They darted to the floor, a single white petal lay, fringed with ash.

'So much for our gardening trip.' His voice was dust on the wind.

'Not like we'd have used them anyway. We were seen, that's the main thing.'

'Damn right we were seen. Had to go and punch that Muggle, didn't you.'

Harry just grunted. Damned kid with his thick hood and thick skull. Just because he'd been holding a knife didn't make up for a lack of brains.

They paused for a moment. His companion signalled he was fine, and levered himself more upright, away from Harry's support. The exertion clearly pained him, and the stretched, cracked skin of his neck showed a fluttering, feeble pulse. With the effort came the release of his last hold on the disguise he held. Hair returned to its normal sandy brown, eyes from a deep brown to a milky hazel. A dusting of stubble appeared, and the skin grew taught and grey and sallow, casting long shadows beneath prominent cheekbones.

'Welcome back, Teddy,' Harry breathed.

'It's getting harder every time.' There was a pleading tone in his voice.

'I know. But what choice do we have?'

The long pause that preceded his words warned Harry exactly what was coming.

'Hand me in.'

The curtain of their room – rotten rag that it was – had been burned away in the brief rush of flame. The ill-fitting pane wept rain all around its edges. Harry stared hard out into the night. Because he couldn't look at Teddy as he answered.

'We can't. They're hunting you. Day and night they tail me, and they're getting bolder. They say that the Steelhearts were aptly named; I don't want to be the man to find out.'

Even with attention fixed out the window as it was, Harry noted the falling of shoulders. A gesture of defeat. Of betrayal. A piece of himself deep inside cracked when he saw it. Not broke, not yet. He had duties to fulfil, and so he would hold himself together, for as long as he could. But the sigh that escaped Teddy Lupin's lips signalled the first rain of dust shaken loose from failing foundations. It shook Harry Potter's night more than the loudest thunder.

'The longer we play this game, the more likely we'll be caught, Harry. Even I know the Ministry has outlawed what we're doing.'

'Because they are afraid. Because they hope that hiding behind desks will leave them out of sight and out of mind. Because they think that eyes looking elsewhere at the moment means that they are forgotten. They are wrong.'

Teddy shook his head, wiping away the layer of spattered mud from his face. They had both fallen to the ground amid their scuffle. Rolling in the mud like children. Like enemies.

'And what if I don't want to do it anymore? What if it's too much? Too much pain, and terror, and I'm just. So. Tired.'

'I wouldn't ask this of you if it wasn't important.'

'Is it, though? How can you be so sure? "They are wrong. This is important. Harry Potter is right." These things you state with such certainty, as if that makes them true. Truth and certainty are not the same thing. Make sure you remember that. Not all of us have had the benefit of living a life so _just_ that our conviction is immune to faltering. Voldemort was certain he was right, after all.'

Teddy's words stung, but Harry weathered them, as he deserved. A little more mortar shook free from their shared foundations.

'I trust my instincts. They've won me one war already. All I ask is that you have a little faith in me in return.'

'There's not much left, Harry. I'm tired and scared. I'm not getting any better, the episodes are getting worse. I'm scared I'm going to die here, in this prison cell of a room.'

This time it was Harry's turn to let out a draining sigh. It felt like he gave all the breath he held in his lungs along with it, and a little bit of himself he couldn't quite get back.

'You know as well as I do they'll work it out straight away. If they find you, they find out. They will know where it all started, and _why_ it all started. And then they will come for us. For now, the instructions are clear. We carry on.'

'There you go again, the instructions. The missives, the secret letters and owls at all hours of the night. The errands across the country and the world to who-knows-where, chasing smoke and mist and a noble death. At the behest of Merlin-knows-who. When the dust finally settles, what will they say of us? Of you? Will the Chosen One have undone his legacy by plunging the Wizarding world into war? Whose side are we even on?'

Harry stood up, tired to his very bones all of a sudden. Again, they had fallen into the tread of an argument they had nearly every time they met. Teddy was trapped here day and night, he had all the time in the world left with his thoughts, and they were growing ever darker. They clasped forearms wordlessly, and at the door Harry turned to favour Teddy with a lasting gaze.

'Someone needs to act, Teddy. If not us, who?'

The crack he made as he Disapparated was lost in the fervour of the storm.


	11. Silk Shirts & Softer Tones

The clamour and clatter of a busy breakfast rattled around in James' skull like a pair of angry dice. The sporadic gusts of wind dragged down from the distant mountains was a lover's touch upon his cheeks, reminding him he was still alive. A puddle, deeper than anticipated, swallowed his calf and rushed into his sneakers, soaking him up to the knee. It tried to force a response from James' sluggish brain, but engendered little more than a defeated " _Bollocks_." Finally, a jaw-cracking yawn seemed to go on forever. So long did it last, that James was forced to stop in his march across the grounds, as walking and yawning were too much for his stupefied brain to process.

He scrunched his eyes tight, massive release building in his chest-

' _Erk-'_

 _Poof!_

Blackness all around. James' yawn was ruined. He couldn't see a thing. He flailed his arms wildly, took a blind step but found no footing. He was falling, seemingly forever. His hands flung out to catch himself, and he landed with a squelch into something that smelled suspiciously like it may have come from the back end of a giant winged horse.

Fred Weasley was absolutely beside himself, doubled over and wheezing with mirth. Not _quite_ going so far as to fall to the floor laughing, and as James surveyed the minefield of horse-leavings into which they had wandered, he deemed that a wise move.

'You- the sleep- the _yawn-_ we're not even _close_ to the Pitch! You should have heard yourself squawk!'

Fred's half-sentences faded off into a fit of something halfway between coughing and laughing. As James spat out a mouthful of black, grainy sand from his own mouth, he hoped Fred choked on the laughter. With a look of chagrin, James realised Fred had, in fact led him in an entirely different direction than the Quidditch Pitch; likely for this very eventuality, and he hadn't even noticed.

James had slept not a wink the night before, first worrying about the impending Quidditch announcements, and then ensconced with Rain in an unused classroom until the sun rose. As it was, he was barely able to keep his eyes open. He'd already managed to add water and bacon to his morning cereal; attempted to drink a pitcher of tomato sauce instead of his pumpkin juice; and had now ingested a mouthful of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, thanks to Fred.

He gazed up longingly at the Gryffindor Tower, where it clung to the distant ramparts as if afraid of falling. His bed was calling to him most alluringly, Quidditch team be damned. He could sleep for a week.

When he did begrudgingly arrive at the changing sheds, it was sporting a partially-charred robe, and smelling somewhere between burnt hair and a messy farmyard.

'Why James, you're looking positively… harried this morning.'

Odette Mansfield's voice slid over James like a silk sheet, and stirred something in the pit of his stomach that let him know he was very much awake.

Fred responded as befit the situation by blowing a loud raspberry.

'I need a bed,' James grumbled.

With only the three of them around, Odette pounced. She glided over in a heartbeat. With a casual twist of her hips she flashed him a very revealing slit up the side of her robes that was certainly non-regulation.

'Is that an invitation, darling? I could certainly be persuaded _…'_

The final word was drawn out with a long, purring cadence that somehow caressed him as she said it. 'Mind you, I think we'd have to get you out of these clothes first.'

The way she was biting down on her lower lip had James' full attention.

An awkward cough from Fred broke the moment, and announced the arrival of another group – mostly of Hogwarts team hopefuls. Striding along ahead by a good couple of paces, with them but also clearly not, was Loyal Clavet.

Odette sprung backwards from James as if stung. Her lascivious smile turned into a scowl and her features darkened like a sudden storm on a summer day.

'If you make the team, Potter, you had best behave yourself, or else I'll- Loyal, _darling!'_

And with that she was gone, plying Loyal with some very public displays of affection. James looked away in disgust. Fred offered the pair of them a healthy two-fingered salute.

'I'm telling you mate, she's bad for your health.'

Suddenly exhausted all over again, James could only nod sullenly in response.

'Good morning wonderful witches and wizards!' Ava Adams had been part of the group. She wore a garish yellow Hufflepuff jumper that didn't quite match her bright red hair, and a dazzling smile that drew all attention away from the fact.

Some shuffling next to him, and James saw Fed grab Al from the crowd. Preston Lynch had been circling with a predatory gleam in his eye.

'Hi James! Pretty exciting, right? D'you think you'll make the team? I don't think I will; Odette's a better Seeker, but I might make Reserve squad. I flew pretty well in the trial. At least that's what Rose said. Did you see me? I sent Odette into a dive that one time with a fake move, and I was only a foot away from the Snitch when she did catch it. That's pretty good, right? Dad said that was good. He said he'll come and watch our games. He said-'

Mercifully, Fred managed to jam a stray sock from his bag into Al's mouth, dulling the barrage. The poor boy was practically shaking with the nerves and excitement. James offered a wobbly thumbs up, and patted his younger brother on the back. It was all he had the energy to give in his current state.

'So we're all gathered here today to see the super-exciting team announcements!' Ava Adams was continuing. Her voice sounded constantly on the verge of breaking out into song. 'Through this door, the jerseys of all the players who have made the team are hanging. First team is on the left, Reserve squad on the right. If your name isn't on a jersey, then you were still a fantastic flyer, and I'm sure you'll be-'

Realizing what was happening, Odette Mansfield disentangled herself from Loyal and marched to the front of the group, handing Ava a none-too-friendly elbow for her troubles.

'If you're not on a jersey, you were a rubbish flyer. Clear off so the real team can get to work.' She frowned out at those gathered as if measuring all of their ability, and finding them wanting. 'Now get in there, and if anyone creases my jersey, I'll Hex you through to next week.'

To her credit, Ava's smile barely faltered, and she pushed open the door with a flourish. The crowd surged forward.

'I reckon Mansfield wants that captain gig all of a sudden,' Fred grinned.

James waited for the rush to slow to a trickle. A part of him was happy remaining out here in the empty corridor, with the brushed flagstone floor and the walls draped in house banners as his company. Out here, he still might be on the team. If he went in there, the answer was definite.

He stared at the door a long while. Fred was content to stand by his side; this was not an unfamiliar dance for the pair. James took a step forward, halted, and contemplated a little longer. He could see the press of bodies through the arch. Whoops of excitement, flashes of robes being shown off to friends. Here and there a scattering of tears. Light spilled out, pooling at his feet. Every so often a bold flickering of the torches that provided it sent beams tentatively covering the toe of his sneakers, there and gone in a blink of an eye. It was a mesmerizing pattern, and James gazed intently at it for a few long moments…

'Oi!'

' _Idunnohowatoadgothere_ -'

'Wake up mate, I think you dozed off on your feet.' Fred's smile was encouraging and confident.

'Right.'

Together, they stepped forward into the light, and across the threshold.

Most of those who hadn't made it had filtered out the far exit by now. Hurried on by Odette's cruel backhand, no doubt. James saw Al, delightedly holding aloft his pure white Reserve squad jersey, his eyes fixed on the crimson-and-gold "Potter" emblazoned across the back. To his left hovered the jet-black robes of the first-string team in a perfect row at chest-height. They shimmered softly in the torchlight, looking as soft to touch as bottled midnight. A red-and-gold labelled "Weasley" called Fred away, and James continued his march, suddenly feeling every single eye on the room studying him. Jennifer Redfern, the second Beater, sat next to Fred, her name written in the blue-and-silver letters of her house. Finn Wilder was examining his name in black and yellow, the double zeroes of his Keeper position shining proudly on his jersey.

Despite her slender figure, Odette managed to take up the entire of the centre of the room. She was twirling her own jersey around like a lover, whooping and giggling with delight. She brought it close to smell the fabric dramatically, then held it at arms' length – dangled directly in front of James – to admire the green and silver that seemed to glimmer as if picked out in emeralds and diamonds.

James had to push past her, as she was crowding his view of the Chasers' section of the room. Despite his sluggish state, his heart was kick-starting into a frantic rhythm in his chest.

His eyes made it as far as Ava Adams, still all glowing smile and brilliant teeth. The stall next to her was empty, and a jersey hung fresh and untouched. The last in the room.

It bore his name.

Suddenly, the march that had seemed so long and daunting couldn't end quickly enough. He dashed to his locker – _his!_ And took the fabric in his hands. It ran through his fingers like silk. His own name stood proud and warm. On his far side Preston Lynch wore a scowl that promised trouble, his own jersey held protectively against his chest. But none of that mattered, now.

'Well done James!' Ava cried, pulling him into a one-armed hug. Odette tossed a filthy look their way.

'Thanks. Hey, what's that symbol say?' James gestured to a small emblem embroidered on the breast of her jersey, just below the Hogwarts crest. It looked like a stylised letter "C".

'I think it means Captain,' Fred added, giving James a congratulatory punch in the shoulder.

'Captain?' James exclaimed, rather loud.

'Captain!?' Odette screeched. ' _You're_ Captain?'

Ava puffed up her chest visibly. Her smile was so sweet as to be sickly. 'As a matter of fact, I am.' The golden "C" gleamed as if called upon.

'Ugh, you two-faced, ginger-haired- _Argh_! I'll find out who voted for you, and they're going to wish they were never even selected!' She tossed a look James' way that sat halfway between threatening and betrayed, before storming out the door. Odette Mansfield seldom made an inconspicuous exit.

'Told you she wanted that gig, mate.' Fred grinned. 'What do you reckon she'll do now?'

'I bet-' James began, but paused as something fell from a fold in his jersey that hadn't been there a second ago. He bent down to pick it off the floor, and Fred peered in close.

It was a tiny chocolate, in black foil wrapping. Confused, James turned it over in his hands. His blood chilled as he saw the underside was painted with a golden, cursive letter "L".

* * *

The beauty of the potion was that it was absolute. It thrived in its own brand of order. With spellcrafting, variability was inherent. Myriad permutations from factors both known and still mysterious, so that every iteration of the spell cast would behave slightly differently than the last. The subtle hue of the sparks produced, the speed of the jet through the air, the strength behind the cast. It was attempting to impose order onto a force that was – by definition – chaotic. But for the budding potioneer, there were a finite number of magical ingredients, each with well-studied and documented magical properties. They interacted with one another in the same way every time. Oscillations in their characteristics – such as would happen through certain phases of the moon – were well-understood and could be used to affect a superior product. In short, there were _rules._ Glorious, beautiful rules than even the potion had to follow, along with its creator. There was little on this planet that Cassandra Featherstone loved more than a logical, clear-cut set of rules to follow.

And she was about to break the very first one.

Cassandra looked down at her Confusing Concoction irritably. It stubbornly refused to thicken. At stir number thirty-seven it ought to be the colour and consistency of maple syrup. It was closer to weak tea.

All around her, fifty other students going through the same processes filled the room with the sound of industry. Her desk, shared with one other, was roughly in the centre. Tables were arranged in neat rows facing the front, where a giant hourglass dribbled sand to keep time. There were no windows, and the room was lit by a scattering of floating candles, bobbing and nodding just above their heads. The draft was chilly and the floor was damp. The low light made it hard to read, and there was something in the air that tickled her nose. It could have been any dungeon on any day of the week. _Just like any other class,_ she told herself. Though that was obviously not true.

Not many of her other classes had a hundred or so onlookers crammed onto a raised dais around the edges of the room, scrutinising her every move. The Junior Tri-Wizard Competition for All-round Magical Excellence had, as she had pointed out to James, well and truly begun, and Cassandra had found herself signing up for the Most Well-Rounded Student competition before she could talk herself out of it.

The largest dungeon on the lowest level was filled with a collection of like-minded students from all three schools. Durmstrang was the least well-represented, with only a dusting of students, wearing their mish-mash uniforms that must hold a significance that Cassandra simply hadn't been able to uncover. She was only too aware of the presence of Beauxbatons. Aside from their haughty stares, she had succumbed to a rather hurtful snicker from her sky-blue-wearing desk-mate as she had pulled out the small stepladder she needed to see over the top of her cauldron.

And of course, Hogwarts was present in great numbers. In front of her, Clip Wallace was nearly at the point where he could stand his ladle upright in his potion. To her left, Chloe Swann hummed a merry tune as she was managing to both stir and chop at the same time. Cassandra would like nothing more than to upend the contents of her cauldron over her smarmy head. How dare she have the audacity to best her in _anything_ academic?

And finally, Emry Sameer. They had attended the Opening Ball together. A cordial agreement between like-minded individuals had resulted in a pleasant evening sharing thoughts and theories on the state of the wizarding world, and, in particular, its education system. That was what the ball was all about, right? So what if they'd not partaken in so much dancing. And Emry had been most accommodating when she had left at nine – she'd be damned if she wasn't getting her eight hours of sleep for some frivolous _Ball._

A handful of Swedish Ice-bee carapaces changed the colour to a dark, murky brown. Six more clockwise stirs and the liquid was still watery-thin. She swore angrily in her head. And then cursed James Potter for teaching her such a nasty word. And then swore _again_ because she had lost count of her stirs. Somehow, it had been James' fault yet again. She found him out among the onlookers, waving on eagerly with the rest of her friends and shot him a withering glare for good measure.

Her _friends._ Now there was a something she hadn't been expecting upon starting at Hogwarts. Friendship, like magic, was such an intangible concept that she struggled still to wrap her head around it. She had never had friends growing up; as it turned out that eight year old children didn't like to discuss magical theory so much as they liked to discuss which pile of mud they pulled this stick from. That had not been Cassandra's world, and so she had gone through it alone, waiting impatiently for the day she would start _real_ school.

Obviously, she had hoped to meet like-minded individuals. To host long discussions late into the evening on the topical matters in magical society in civilised settings and pave her way to a significant role in the development in the magical community of Britain. Instead, James Potter had barged through her door on the Hogwarts Express and she'd since had to fight off an Imperiused Auror in a part of the Castle that seemed to have only one foot in the bounds of reality, faced down some Ancient Magical beings intent on bringing icy destruction to the school, and broken her leg no fewer than three times.

In went a heaped handful of glow-worm tails. The resulting steam cloud left her a bit giddy and light-headed. And still the potion wouldn't thicken.

She didn't entirely understand where she stood with the lot of them. Friendship was a tricky business. The best she could work out, it was something of a constant exchange. Debts handed back and forth, ground ceded on important matters, only to be handed back further down the track on something equally critical. A never-ending back-and-forth where each exchange in itself held the value of shared experience.

She was on to her last fifty stirs now, all in the clockwise direction. Her potion was too thin, too weak. She knew what it ought to look like, and it wasn't this. When she'd made it in class a week ago… When she'd made it a week ago she'd been hit with a gigantic sneeze midway through the fortieth stir. She remembered the horror as her stirring rod had jagged across the cauldron on a diagonal, entirely ruining the mandated pattern laid out in the book. But immediately following that, her potion had thickened to desired consistency and she had won ten points for Ravenclaw through its sheer perfection.

Had it been the misplaced stir that had caused it? Or was the potion ready to thicken anyway, and perhaps her crooked stir had made no difference at all? Could she place all of her faith now, in the desperate final moments of this challenge, in such empirical evidence? Dare she, Cassandra Featherstone, Champion of Order and Regulation, break her foremost rule: _Follow the Instructions._

Twenty-nine stirs in, and her eyes found Rain in the crowd.

There was no-one else with whom Cassandra shared such a wealth of those shared experiences. She assumed, therefore, that there was no-one else whom she could call a closer friend. Rain offered her everything that she had hoped for in a friend, everything that she had _not_ got from James and the others. They debated Magical Law into the small hours of the morning. They discussed advances in Magical knowledge and how they could be used to build a stronger Magical Community. They debated philosophy and logic and the psychology of what made a Dark Wizard, and in those hours, huddled over their favourite table in the Ravenclaw common room, Cassandra was never happier.

It left her distraught, then, that she could think of nothing to offer in return. Her part in Rain's rescue in first and second year had been circumstantial at best, merely following orders from James. She couldn't figure out what it was that Rain looked for in a friend, so that she could give it back in kind. Sure, on the occasions where Rain screamed through the entire night, Cassandra would sit at her bedside, re-applying silencing charms so as not to wake the others, whispering soothing words into her friend's ear in vain attempts to calm her. And there were those times when Rain seemed to fall into some sort of a trance, where she would howl and snarl and try desperately to tear out her own eyes, her own throat. Cassandra had been terrified at first, but now she could cast a Body-Bind Curse to match the best of them. But these were not a gift, these were only logical actions in the case of such a situation. She struggled every day with ways to repay the ever-growing debt of friendship between herself and Rain.

Their eyes met across the room, and the corner of Rain's mouth quirked in a subtle smile. She _knew._

Warmth flooded through Cassandra. It was all the encouragement that she needed; the support from a friend. _Thirty eight, thirty nine…_

'Achoo!' Cassandra faked a sneeze, dragging her stirring rod in a crooked motion across the cauldron. For an agonizing heartbeat she waited and watched, but before she had finished the forty-first stir, her cauldron was bubbling with a thick, syrupy substance that glowed a rich golden-brown.

When Cassandra looked up again, Rain was gone. A part of her had expected that. A guardian figure appearing when she was needed most. Adding to that ever-growing debt of friendship that she could never hope to repay. Cassandra did know one thing, though; that she would follow that girl to the ends of the earth, that the secrets she uttered in her fever-like states would be safe with her, and that she would do all in her power to protect her from harm.

Her loyalty would be absolute.

* * *

An hour of sitting in a room where fifty Confusing Concoction were brewing left the inhabitants under the cloud of a hazy fugue come the award ceremony. Professor Ellfrick first tried to present Cassie with a glass full of pickled eel eyes as her trophy for winning, and then announced her name as "Chloe Swann" which, judging from Cassie's beet-red face did _not_ go down well. James cheered along with the rest of those gathered when Hogwarts was finally awarded the first School Points of the Tournament.

James alone, however, had kept his mind sharp. His body was prickling with sweat from the effort, and his nails were digging little half-moons into each palm as he maintained a rigorous focus.

He had smelled _that_ smell.

Dragged up by the dank draft that constantly haunted these depths of the castle, it was rich with the thick, musty scent of an unearthed tomb. Like the deepest cave that had never seen the light, it was stale and heady and dizzying all at once. To James, it smelled like centuries of death.

He had noticed it halfway through the proceedings. It had taken all of his self-control to not dash out on the spot; but Clip and Cassie were competing; his friends needed support. Now that was over, he found himself edging between the scrum of bodies all trying to squeeze through the door at once.

The others hadn't believed him the last time he had been down here, and Holly's words – filled with the attendant pain – still rang in his ears. Was he trying to inject meaning into something that was ultimately trivial? He could hear their arguments already. The dungeon _always_ smelled damp and mouldy. There was _nothing_ there. The world doesn't always have to be ending.

And so he found himself making this trip alone.

With his collar turned up and his eyes focused on the grimy floor, he didn't notice he had come up on another presence until he all-but trod on two green-hemmed robes.

'Hello James.'

'Wha- oh, hi Lily. Nerissa.'

The two first years were, themselves, looking a little sheepish.

'We'll just be, erm… going then.'

That suited James just fine, but something about their quelled demeanour and fake smiles was reaching out to his curiosity.

'Wait a minute, what's going on? Are you OK? You haven't been fighting with fourth years again, have you?'

There was less than a moment's hesitation, but in it James saw Lily bite down on the inside of her cheek – an almost guaranteed sign that she was lying.

'No. Never. We wouldn't do that.'

Nerissa was trying to look innocent, but with her pointed, haughty features it came off more like she needed the bathroom.

A burst of laughter from back up the hall snagged James' attention, and he looked back furtively. The milling crowd was growing in number, and he saw Cat's long, silver hair catching the torchlight, towering above the rest of the group. Deciding that the girls looked hale enough, and that secrecy was more paramount than justice, he let them pass with a lingering pointed look he had learned from Cassie.

They both smiled sweetly, and James darted towards the low doorway ahead. Thankfully, he didn't look back, for if he had, he would have seen the entire back side of their robes singed away, and a little curl of smoke rising from where the majority of Nerissa's hair had once been.

James allowed himself a moment to breathe once he was through the archway. There were no torches on this side, and the shadows it threw were enough to hide him from the students in the corridor behind. This was the tight spiral staircase that led to the corridor where he had found… whatever it was he had found last time. He crouched in the darkness, waiting for the crowd to disperse and making sure none came his way. Why would they? This was a completely unused section of the castle; not even the teachers ventured here with any regularity, as far as he knew.

Once all were gone, James drew his wand silently. He was alone with only the damp and the shadows as company. The crackling of torches in their brackets seemed to speak to each other, unaware of his presence. Their twittering discourse grew in his ears until he had to shake his head to clear it. There was work at hand.

' _Lumos.'_

His wand-tip flared, illuminated grey slate steps, narrow and coated with dust. A single footprint was impressed into the grime on each step. Company? He raised his wand, but the spiralling stairs blocked his vision. He edged down one at a time, until the flickering light of the torches was gone completely, and the faint silver of his wand was all that was left. A steady _drip-drip_ rose up to fill the silence.

His careful progress took him safely past the step he slipped on the last time he ventured this deep. The treacherous film of green slime remained, courtesy of the incessant dripping which was beating a rhythm to match James' steady footfalls.

The ground eventually levelled out into what James knew to be a corridor. _The_ corridor. The rough-hewn flagstones beneath his feet were uneven. Millennia of filth had replaced the grout holding them in place, and they were treacherous and uneven underfoot. The darkness was pressing.

' _Lumos Maxima!'_

James whisper-shouted the spell, flinging the ball of light from his wand-tip down the length of the corridor.

It illuminated a low corridor, the stones of the roof sagging in at the centre under the weight of the entire castle. A trickle of dust ran down one wall, causing James to start. His ill-adjusted eyes could make out no more detail. Rows of doors lined each side of the hall, interspersed with narrow sconces. Some held empty pedestals, waiting patiently to be adorned with a vase or artefact that would never come. Some hundred feet away one lay shattered across the floor. James couldn't tell, but from this distance the breaks looked fresh.

His eyes stayed glued to the ground, tracing back towards himself as the light raced ahead. Pressed into the layers of dirt was that same pair of footprints.

Suddenly, perhaps a hundred paces down the corridor, James' light winked out. It shouldn't have; he was able to cast that charm the entire length of the Quidditch pitch. It vanished without a trace, leaving a faint purple afterimage in his eyes from where he had been staring at the glow. The darkness it left behind was absolute. The tiny rain of dust became a shifting robe dragging across tiles. The steady drip of water became footfalls coming towards him. He could see nothing, but hear it all.

His breath suddenly seemed as loud as a gale wind. He clamped his mouth shut, but it made no difference. _'Lumos,'_ he whispered again. This time, the glow was much weaker. Restricted almost to an arm's length in every direction. He turned on the spot. His footsteps scuffed on the loose dirt. Was that response an echo, or was someone else down here with him?

The scent of hundred-year-old death had grown faint since he had entered. Regular damp and mould was all he could smell now; it lacked that sickly sweet smell of rot and decay that set him to gagging.

He took a cautious step forward, his wand held aloft. When he focused on sustaining the spell he could send the light out five or ten paces ahead. The doors marched down either side of the corridor, waiting. Their rusted handles glowed faintly like dirty blood.

He came upon the first one to his right. If the smell was coming from this part of the castle, it was behind one of these doors. That was where he had tumbled. That was where he would find that – _whatever –_ again. The handle beneath his fingers was rough. Rust flaked off beneath his touch. Jagged flecks of iron dug into his palms as he shoved, resisting his efforts with jabs of pain. He threw his shoulder up against the boards, scrabbling for purchase on the loose flagstones underfoot.

His wand dangled in his hand, bobbing and darting with his movements as he played out an almost-comical silent struggle cast in intermittent flashes of light. Sweating slightly, James pulled back to survey his progress: three loose tiles, one bloody palm and not an inch of give in the door.

A vision of Cassie flashed before him, rapping him on the forehead with his own wand when he had been unable to reach a Quaffle stuck high in a tree. _Are you a wizard or not?_

' _Alohomora!'_

A slow, grating noise that put paid to James' previous efforts at secrecy. The door wailed as if in pain, steel ground against steel somewhere within its mechanism. _'Silencio! Silencio!'_ He shouted, but in his panicked state, he was unable to cast the spell properly.

When the noise finished, the latch sat free. The echo took a long time to fade. James held his wandlight forward, his grip steady despite his racing heart. He laid a hand against the rough wood and shoved hard.

The door swung open on surprisingly solid hinges. It crashed against the far wall from the strength of James' shove. He took half a step through it, but froze as another crash sounded down the corridor. That had _not_ been an echo.

Instinctively ducking low and to his left, James took shelter in an empty sconce. The light of his wand winked out and he cursed himself for being too accustomed to it; he could see nothing in the pitch blackness.

Silence now, but he knew what he had heard. He had thrown open his door and then someone else had done the same, further down the corridor. He wasn't alone. He blinked furiously, but no detail would resolve. Between his rapid panting, and the blood thundering through his ears, he could hear nothing coming from down the hall. No scuffs nor grunts. Had they fled through the portal? Where did these doors even lead?

The moment stretched taut. James slowly brought his breathing under control. The grip on his wand firmed, and his muscles shifted from quivering to coiled. He was James Sirius Potter; F.A.R.T club champion, Protector of the Heart of Hogwarts, Defeater of Atlanteans, and, above all, a damned Gryffindor. What would his father have done?

With a silent yell, James sprung free from his hiding spot. ' _Defodio! Depulso! Flipendo!'_ His barrage of spells kicked up a swathe of the loose tiles from the floor, and sent them careening off down the corridor ahead of him in a violent wall of stone. Chips shattered as they hit wood and iron and more stone, covering his movements with a constant patter interspersed with riotous crash. ' _Impedimenta!'_ He fired out a spell at where he thought the door ought to be for good measure. The orange jet of light illuminated the wood a mere half step from his face, and he didn't even have time to yell in alarm as he collided head first with several inches of thick, iron-bound oak.

Stars blossomed in his vision, he reeled backwards, felt his wand drop from fingers controlled by somebody else. Coppery blood flooded into his mouth, and the smell of dirt filled his nostrils as he collapsed to the floor in a heap, his head still spinning. A final rain of stone chips and mortar sprinkled down on top of him, and all was finally still.

Some heroic charge.

James spat blood, drew a hand across a ruined lower lip, and fished around for his wand. Whoever had been here must have fled down whichever corridor this door led, as the sound of his laboured breathing was the only company for his scattered wits.

Except that now, it wasn't.

The familiar smell had returned. The smell of rot and decay and a tomb exhumed from the deepest cave. The smell of the Infected; the smell of death. It spilled out from the direction of the open door, so strong that James was forced to cover his mouth and nose.

His wand-tip flared, and he cast light back up the corridor. It looked farther than he thought it should. If he'd come this far, may as well press on. He was close now; he was certain.

James yelled in fright as he turned to face the doorway, through which he had half crossed already. A perfect replica of himself was staring back. He moved his left arm, the clone followed suit. He reached out, as if to touch… _himself?_ But his hand met no resistance of mirrored glass, and there was no flesh pressing up against his own. Curious, James lifted his wand – as did his clone – and peered sharply at the replica. It was a perfect mirror; no matter how hard he stared, or how erratically he moved, his partner followed suit.

So intent on his scrutiny was James, that he failed to notice the figure unfurling behind him, and so it wasn't until the hand forced itself across his mouth, and the jabbing sensation of a wand stuck into his back that he realised he was in a spot of trouble.


	12. Shadowy Snakes & Yellow Deception

Operating in a grey area somewhere between blind panic and cold, detached action, James twisted his body violently. He lashed out with an arm and connected. The satisfying sound of wood clattering over cobblestones announced his success.

Suddenly disarmed, his opponent shifted to the defensive. The hand over his mouth slipped to his shoulders. He used the change to launch his attacker over his back, in a full body throw. The toss took all of his strength. The body was oddly silent as the thick, black cloth of a Hogwarts robe whipped past his face.

A second filled with puzzlement – that single grunt had been feminine – and then a blast of magic flung him backwards. He collapsed to the ground like a ragdoll. Elbows and knees found hard edges of the cobblestones, and pain blossomed everywhere. His vision wavered, but his determination didn't. The reassuring presence of his wand appeared in his hand, and with a low growl, he charged. A half-dozen spells were on his lips, ready to fire-

'Halt, James Potter.'

James halted. Abruptly.

'Rain?' Unbidden, he thought back to the effort required in tossing her over his shoulder. 'You were heavier than I expected.'

'Careful, now.' She paused, consumed by a fit of shallow coughing. 'I might decide to Hex you after all. I do believe you have winded me. This is most unpleasant.'

James approached cautiously. He used the pretence of lighting his wand to keep it in his hand. He wasn't prepared to put it away just yet. 'You jammed a wand in my back. Wasn't overly pleasant.'

'My apologies, James Potter. I thought you were a… an intruder.'

James paused to reach down and pick up Rain's wand from the floor. He didn't offer it back to her.

Under the illumination of his wand, the results of their brief scuffle were made clear. Her robe had been torn free, and a split ran up one side of her blouse. Mud and dirt coated the pale skin that showed through the fabric, and was smeared across one side of her face. Her hair was mussed, and-

James gasped. The sound hissed up and down the corridor in a long, sibilant echo.

Her eyes were the colour of burnished gold.

She tore her gaze away quickly, and when she looked back they had returned to the usual sea-green. Apprehension was writ across her face. The change had happened so quick that James wasn't even sure quite _what_ he had seen. The only source of light was his wand, held now at his waist. He tightened his fist around Rain's wand as well.

'James…' her voice trailed off, lost in the space between them.

He looked away. Something in his gut was sitting uneasy about this whole situation. The door through which he had almost passed now stood yawning and dark. A thick barrier of mist appeared to be building up, and it was resistant to the passage of his wandlight.

'Look at me, please.' The plaintive tone of her voice tugged at James' heart.

The mist had begun to seep through the barrier, and was pooling about their feet like a murky grey puddle. James nudged it with his toe, and was instantly assaulted by a powerful scent that was becoming all too familiar, and a rush of vertigo.

'This… what is it?' His tone was harsher than he would have liked. He took a step backwards. The mist clung longingly to the hem of his robes.

'It is nothing,' Rain replied. Groping tendrils were wending their way up her calves.

'Merlin's pants it is. It's the same thing I smelt when I was down here last time; it's what that Infected in Diagon Alley reeked of when he came for Al and I.'

'I can't imagine an Infected would be out specifically targeting _you,_ James Potter. I hear that they periodically lose their minds when sick. It must have been random.'

'It knew my name.'

A slight quirk of Rain's brow was masked by the guise of wiping a smear of mud from her face.

'Have you ever been told, James Potter, that you have rather a strong penchant for the dramatic?'

There it was again. The words were an echo of Holly's sentiment. Always trying to make up something life-threatening. First his Dad, after that very attack in Diagon Alley, then Tristan and Fred, the last time he'd been down here. Rain had been the only one yet to shut him down. Until now, it seemed. He sagged a little.

'I know what I saw- smelled- heard. Whatever.'

Rain's gaze shifted to gentle admonishment, and she held out a hand for her wand. James handed it back, suddenly feeling stupid.

'This level of the dungeons is largely unused, and so the professors chose it to expose of the fifty-odd cauldrons of sub-par Confusing Concoctions that were brewed immediately above us. That's hardly the type of thing they want left lying around. When the potion comes into contact with mould, it rapidly evaporates. The steam is not as potent as the liquid, but it is known to cause dizziness, light-headedness and moderate confusion. It's understandable that you are out of sorts.'

Rain flicked her wand, and the mist that had been entwining itself around her body shook free. It slunk back towards the doorway like a kicked animal, cowed. She added her own light to James'. The shadows it cast on her face were haunting.

Rain's tone was bordering on patronising. It riled James. 'And so what are you doing down here, then?'

'A girl can never have too much Eau de Confusing Concoction, James Potter. Who knows when it may come in handy?'

She reached into a pocket and produced a small crystal flask, offering it to James. It was clouded with a murky, slate-grey substance that wasn't quite liquid.

With his hand halfway to the phial, James paused. If he took it, it was a statement that he didn't trust Rain. She had offered her explanation, and was providing proof. If James took it, and checked its contents then it was an overt display of mistrust. Fertile ground into which seeds of dissent might find root. Cracks forming between them where he certainly wanted none.

He waved the offering away. Rain smiled. She made a doomed effort to draw her ruined blouse across her muddy, exposed skin and shrugged, defeated.

'You know I'd never do anything to hurt you, James Potter. You trust me, don't you?'

She offered her free hand to James, and gestured towards the distant exit, barely discernible through the blackness. Her fingers were scuffed and muddy. Her perfect nails chipped. James laced his similarly-damaged fingers through hers and they began to walk together.

'Of course,' he lied.

James kept his reservations to himself over the coming weeks, largely for fear of ridicule from his friends. They'd already dismissed his fears once. He'd go to them when he had concrete proof, and not before. He just had to figure out how to get it.

The school around him paid his frustrations no heed, however, as the student body – including extras – took the first tentative steps into the full swing of the tournament. There were competitions in Charms and in Potions. There were weekly matches of Wizards' Chess in which Clip excelled. An ongoing challenge to rear a terrifying animal Hagrid called a Blast-Ended Skrewt consumed many of Cat's waking hours. She'd named it Gertrude. There were even weekly questionnaires and quizzes, much to James' despair and Cassie's glee. Everything, it seemed, was worth the vaunted Tournament Points.

And there were few within the castle walls who didn't wholeheartedly take up the challenge to participate. Why hold back, when the spirit was so infectious? School colours quickly became banners; a rallying cry for allies. There were no longer Slytherins against Gryffindors; all sported identical black armbands wherever they went. Black, for Hogwarts. United they were, against the Greys and the Blues. For weeks unparalleled, the students of Hogwarts knew true unity.

But such is the nature of infectious spirits, that the fever can burn too hot. The first task of the _real_ Triwizard Tournament occurred on Halloween. It carried all of the associated ceremony and pomp into the day. The champion from Beauxbatons won what was, by all accounts, a close-fought challenge, but the result was overshadowed by a small political scandal, whereby a delegation of Ministers from the British Ministry of Magic were turned away from the school, and deported from France over fears of sickness relating to the Infected.

Among them, was the Minister for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and he was not well pleased by the humiliation.

The result – and subsequent debacle – served to draw the lines that marked divides between students even deeper at Hogwarts. Those "damned Blues" saw the victory of their fellow student as confirmation of their elevated status, and, if it were possible, looked down their noses even further at those in Black and Grey.

Neither school took this slight lightly. Tensions quickly grew to boiling point, what with all three student bodies cooped up within the walls. It was only a matter of time before someone ended up Hexed black and, well, _Blue._

It was a merciful reprieve then, when on the third weekend in October, the notice came through that the students were to be given their first trip of the year to Hogsmeade Village.

'I can't wait to have a Butterbeer in the _real_ three Broomsticks,' James exclaimed to Fred, Clip and Tristan. They all nodded eagerly in response.

The boys had – wisely in James' opinion – decided to make the trip to Hogsmeade alone. He had overheard his father and Ron talking late one night after a good many Firewhiskeys about a trip Harry had taken to Hogsmeade with a girl named Cho Chang. It had sounded like an unmitigated disaster, and given James' recent experiences with the young women of Hogwarts, he was more than happy to share the occasion only with the boys.

'I need to swing by Spintwitches for Broomstick-polishing oil,' Fred added.

'Been doing a bit of broomstick-polishing since Rosalie turned you down, hey Fred?' Tristan asked with a sly smile.

James laughed, adjusting the black armband that announced him as a student of Hogwarts. He sported it even though he was obviously wearing a Gryffindor Quidditch jacket. One simply didn't leave the safety of the dormitory without announcing their allegiances these days. All four displayed them proudly. Fred was wearing his as a bandana.

'Mind if we swing by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?' Clip asked. 'I think it's about time I got even with Alannis McClellan for dumping me at the ball.'

'That's the spirit!' Freddy roared, startling a nearby flock of birds to flight. 'A motive like that is worth at least a fifty percent discount, I'd wager.'

The four boys descended on Hogsmeade in great spirits, eager to sample the myriad excitements passed on to them in tales from their parents and siblings. They made the Three Broomsticks their first stop – after a solid ten minutes spent elbowing through the press to order a drink, Fred managed to get them kicked out after less than a quarter through it, for sneakily levitating a batch of Nosebleed Nougat into the tankards of some unsuspecting Beauxbatons students.

'Worth it!' Fred cried as he was frog-marched out by a burly wizard who looked to have at least a touch of Troll in him. 'Down with the Blues!'

The blood-stained snarls he got in response were merely kindling to his fire.

Tristan insisted that they make for the Hog's Head instead, but proceeded to ruin that experience by trying to order a shot of Firewhiskey in his Butterbeer. Once again, a row of tankards were left forlorn and unfinished, and the boys were shown the exit none-too-kindly. They laughed uproariously through the whole affair.

Fred and James amused themselves by pulling faces at the couples trapped in the steamy confines of Madam Puddifoot's while Clip and Tristan shopped for new quills. They purchased at least one of everything from the Weasley's store, and James hadn't taken a dozen steps out the door before his armband transfigured into a snake intent on crawling up his nose. Fred took full responsibility.

They had to pause in their merriment following that episode to duck down a side alley and reaffix James' armband. If he was recognised without it by an older student, there'd be a painful price to pay.

'So what do you reckon about this Triwizard fiasco,' Tristan asked.

Fred was in buying his broomstick supplies. He'd requested James keep Tristan out here while he did so, as the latter hadn't stopped making broomstick-related jokes since they arrived in the village. They were waiting across from Spintwitches, in the doorway of a boarded up shop. A cold wind barrelled up the street, and set a wooden sign hung on the door to clattering. _"Closed for Infected. Owners abroad"_ it read.

'It sure doesn't do us any favours,' Clip offered. 'I heard Renshaw get into a shouting match with the head of the Blues the other night.'

They all shuddered. No one wanted to see _that_ side of Galatea Renshaw.

'You can't just kick the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports out of his own event,' Tristan agreed. 'Not if you want the Tournament to run smoothly. It makes no sense.'

'I bet they'd be on high alert though,' James added. 'There's no Infected in France yet. I'd imagine it wouldn't take much to spook them. And on Halloween, too.'

'Huh.' Was all Clip had to say.

'Well?' James eventually prompted, when nothing else was forthcoming.

'I do believe Fred managed to slip something into my underwear before he left. It feels as though I've just sat down in a fireplace.'

'My condolences,' Tristan offered. Clip had taken on a rather sickly shade of green.

'Also, what if something, or rather some _one_ did spook them? Can you think of anyone who might possibly want increased tensions between international magical communities? An international magical convict, perhaps?'

Clip had started hopping from foot to foot, and finally, he could take it no more. As soon as he finished speaking, he sprinted down the street, leaping bottom-first into a fountain adorning a small square.

Fred didn't even look surprised when he returned to see them gathered around Clip, still with his backside underwater. 'It's like training a dog,' he sagely informed them. 'You've got to get him to associate thoughts of Alannis with pain. I'm looking out for you, really.'

Clip's scowl certainly made clear that he didn't quite see it that way.

Their last stop, naturally, was the Shrieking Shack. Fred said his father knew a secret path that led almost to the front door. They were to have turns seeing who could get the closest, with the winner claiming a prize pool of everyone's stash of sweets from Honeydukes. They followed a winding, gravelly path through some low bushes that eventually turned into a forest proper. Towering pines and firs climbed up either side, blocking out the sunlight and whispering to them from above. A sudden round of birdcalls sounded as they neared the clearing they sought. Fred led the way, pushing triumphantly through one last thicket of scrub, revealing, no fewer than a hundred paces to their right, the Shrieking Shack.

It sat there, a defiant blight against the picturesque landscape, cast in murky greys and browns against the lush green backdrop. Crooked boards hung loose and rotten. Windows were smashed, leaving only yawning maws of darkness. A curtain fluttered at one, torn and, even from this distance, clearly bloodstained. The whole building seemed to lean drunkenly to one side, further underpinning its unnatural nature. A single, fat crow stood atop the roof, a grim guardian of this blighted domain.

'Oh. Hello.'

James jumped a good foot into the air. He tried to play it off, but the others had all done the same. They shared a sheepish look.

'Cat?'

Cat was sitting cross-legged atop a tree-stump at the far side of the clearing. Her long silver hair was loose, flowing all the way to the ground, brushing the scattering of pine needles on the forest floor. She had been wearing her armband as a blindfold, but was now peeking under one side.

'Oh dear, you're not them.'

Before James could ask "Not who?" The leaf litter at his feet sprung to life. He had about half a second to think _"Not snakes again"_ before something long and sinuous coiled around his ankles, hoisting him up bodily two, three man-heights above the ground. He dangled there, upside down, for a moment before a sharp grunt from the bushes to his left, and a strong breeze swept over the four of them. Suddenly it was a _lot_ colder. He looked down – well, _up_ – to see that he, along with the others, was now hung upside down from a tree branch in nothing but his underwear.

Tristan was roaring righteous fury, threatening a full spectrum of bushes around them, from shrubbery up to the tallest fir. James shot Cat a piercing look.

'Cat, what the _hell?'_

'Oh dear,' she breathed. 'That wasn't supposed to happen.' She held her hands to her mouth in shock. Her eyes flicked repeatedly to a particularly thick bush nearby.

'It does appear we have not quite caught the Blues who were harassing you, Miss.' A Durmstrang student strode out from the bush Cat was staring at. He was a small, runt of a fellow with overly large eyes and a twitchy habit that made him seem nervous. James could tell he was Durmstrang because, instead of the usual armband, his entire face was painted grey. Black rings adorned his eyes, giving his visage a skull-like cast.

'You did this?' Tristan shouted. 'Come over here I'll box you through to next Wednesday! You won't be able to sit for a week!' Next to James, Tristan flailed uselessly in mid-air, his face a beet-red that James' certainly felt.

'Oh no,' called up the Durmstrang student. 'I'm not in charge here. Save that for the Boss.'

He jabbed his wand at the same bush, and out flopped a second student. This one was even smaller, and had covered himself in clusters of twigs and leaves. He took one look at the hanging students and squeaked, curling into a ball and becoming a remarkably well-camouflaged bush once more.

' _That_ is your leader?' Tristan growled. James was beginning to feel a touch light-headed.

'Not quite. Come out you pansies!'

James could only watch, wide-eyed, as no fewer than eight more students shuffled out from behind the bush that had seemed at best big enough to hide the initial two. They all had identical face paint, the fierceness ruined somewhat by their sheepish expressions. Tristan cursed them all, and James studied their faces until, right near the back, crouching behind a particularly tall one…

'You!' he pointed, but unfortunately a stiff breeze chose that moment to turn him around in a gentle circle, so that the entire clearing held its breath while he completed a full rotation, his finger finally coming to rest, pointing directly at Pot-Head.

At that moment, _another_ group of Grey-faces trotted up the path, coming to an awkward halt at seeing the four Hogwarts students strung up by their ankles. This group were all similarly long and lean, with strip s of brown and green tied to their grey cloaks.

'That's not the Blues,' one stated.

'Ha!' Pot-Head roared, lowering an accusatory finger in the direction of the one who spoke. 'You! This is _your_ fault! You idiots signalled the approach. It was _your_ bird calls.'

The rangy bloke opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a suspicious rustling from across the clearing.

'Stop it Twist. They'll hear us.'

'No you stop it.'

'You stop it _more.'_

'You stop it _most!'_

'Aw, damn it.'

'Hah! I win!'

To celebrate his apparent victory, a great lumbering figure leaped clean free of the bush in question, hand raised aloft like a true champion. He romped out into the clearing, evidently still oblivious of any company until, with an inhuman squawk, he trod directly on the student disguised as a bush. He collapsed instantly in a tangle of limbs and grunts.

'I don't suppose you'll believe _he_ is the leader?' Pot-Head ventured hopefully. 'Twist, come over here so this red-faced man can pummel your empty skull!'

Twist happily acquiesced, trundling over to stand beneath a thoroughly-confused Tristan.

'I don't suppose anyone has thought about a way to get them down?' Cat finally spoke up.

As it turned out, nobody had. It took at least a further half hour, and a human stack three students high to reach up and sever the ropes with a Cutting Hex. Twist happily caught the four of them before they tumbled to the ground, setting each down with a patronising pat on the head. Pot-Head eventually owned up as the ringleader to the Durmstrang circus, and handed back their clothes and wands.

'They cornered me outside Madam Puddifoot's,' Cat began, recounting the tale of her run-in with the Beauxbatons students. The entire Durmstrang group was gathered around like school children around a campfire.

'What were you-' Fred began, but James held up a finger to silence him. If Cat was going on secret dates, that was her business.

'Oh, I like to find couples who are having an awkward time and join them at their table. You know, take some of the awkwardness away.'

Nobody said anything as that statement hung in the air for a few long seconds.

'I was making my way to the Hog's Head when they cornered me in a back alley. They tried to take my armband, and make me tell them where you were.'

'Us?' asked James, confused.

'Quidditch goons,' Pot-Head growled. 'Trying to start trouble, no doubt.'

James could think of one Beauxbatons Quidditch Goon in particular that he'd like to start a bit of trouble with.

'And so you just rushed to the fair maiden's aid at the drop of a hat?' Tristan was eyeing the group more than a little suspiciously. He evidently was still carrying something of a grudge. James didn't quite blame him.

Pot-Head just shrugged. The way he laid his hand on Cat's shoulder was particularly familiar. Even James was able to put the two together in this context.

'It only took you half of the Durmstrang student body, by the looks of it,' Tristan countered, not ready to give up just yet.

'Your friend has been kind to us all. We repay kindness with loyalty. You, of all people, should know about that.'

Tristan paused for a long time, weighing up Pot-Head and his mismatched ilk. Eventually, something passed between the pair, and they stepped forward together, clasping forearms with a silent nod. Pot-Head continued on, shaking each of their hands in turn. James felt a pang of guilt that he still didn't know the blokes real name.

Relationships mellowed from there, and James and Fred shared their idea of wagering their respective Honeydukes stashed on who could get closest to the Shrieking Shack. The Durmstrang students agreed, and soon they were all dashing out across the bare expanse between tree line and hovel, coming ever closer to making contact with the splintered grey wood to a chorus of whoops and cheers from eager onlookers.

James picked a seat up the back next to Pot-Head. He gestured to Twist, currently haplessly trying to wipe the grey paint from his hands. In the short moments James watched, the poor kid had managed to smear every item of clothing at least once.

'What is it with them?' James asked. 'The big ones. And the skinny ones. And the stabby ones. It's almost like you guys aren't from the same school at all. You don't even seem to have a proper uniform.'

Pot-Head's grin was wide and toothy. He picked up a nearby twig and began to chew the end of it, thinking over his words.

'You have your houses, no? Bravery, cunning, loyalty and smarts. Noble traits, one and all. Before the last war, at Durmstrang, we had none. My father told of a time where all were as one. One mind, one weapon, some said. There are advantages to such a method, but the problem with one mind, is that once somebody penetrates it, all will fall. Such is how the mighty Durmstrang fared in the last war. Broken, used for despicable magics. Our reputation dragged further through the mires of Darkness. As if we needed it.

'So we cleaned house. Purged the old blood. Some families we banished, some we hanged. There were some Dementors yet living in our country. Those were fed well during the Grey Years, immediately after the war. What rose from those ashes was a different beast entirely. They prided themselves on being the most powerful militaristic academy in Europe. I would not argue that that has changed. We remain strong. There is more than one way to skin a Kneazle, after all.

'But Durmstrang is different now. You have your houses after your values, ours are after our… how do you say, strengths? Strannik,' here Pot-Head gestured to a cluster of the slender students with strips of green and brown affixed to their clothing. 'Like to play in the woods. Quick eyes and quick feet. Can run for days. Like eating worms and twigs. The big boys, Skjold. Muscle. Heavy firepower, the Shield. They're twice as stupid as they look, and thrice as dumb as they sound, but only when they think you're watching. Stroitel, is where I call home. Builders, but more often than not it's the opposite of building that we do, if you understand me.'

Something about his wicked grin told James that Fred and Pot-Head might get along quite well in certain areas of demolition.

'And what about the others?' James asked. 'The…'

'The stabby ones, you say? Aye. Tishna. It means silence. You have a friend, with the dark hair, who fights like she herself is a shadow. They make of that practice a religion. To them, she is like a High Priestess already, such do they worship her. Silence because of how they move, and silence because they are the ones to call when, well… when someone needs silencing.'

James swallowed. So _that_ explained why he felt so antsy around them.

'It sounds a lot like Durmstrang are building their own private army,' he said, a little uncomfortable by the realisation.

Pot-Head studied him for a long moment. He chewed his twig down to almost nothing. 'And Hogwarts aren't? A lot of powerful people are preparing as if there's another war on the horizon. It's enough to make you almost start believing them.'

* * *

Through the shadowed underbelly of the castle he slunk like the snake he was pretending to be. His collar was turned up. His eyes on constant alert. He daren't wear his robe to this meeting. Trouble followed him closely enough as it was.

One nondescript dank corridor melded into another. A thin film of slime and muck began to coat the limestone brick walls. There were no portraits to mark his passage, just the indecisive light cast by the sputtering torches; there and gone again so that he truly was dancing through shadows.

Tristan Macmillan didn't fancy any of this sneaking about business. It just felt _dirty._ Maybe it was the Hufflepuff in him, but if he was faced with a problem he was much more comfortable confronting it head on, and talking his way out. Or, if the occasion called for it, _punching_ his way out. In retrospect, the latter might not be so Hufflepuff of him after all.

And his house-mates had noted that. The common refrain was that Hufflepuffs were the most docile and kind of the houses, and certainly their tempers may have been the longest, but meek was far from it. He had received several stern words following his escapades with Potter and the crew at the end of second year. And after first year, come to think of it. His engaging in what the older Hufflepuff students – the self-titled Council of Elders – had called "senseless" violence.

Tristan shook his head as he walked. Sometimes, their way of diplomacy and building ties just wasn't enough. Sometimes you just had to swig a fist. He studied the scarification on his knuckles from where he had attempted to smack some sense into a powerful magical ice-demon at the end of his second year. Sometimes even punching your way out wasn't enough.

The Council had been divided in their admonishment, however. Several among them were of the opinion that following a friend into conflict was the most loyal and Hufflepuff thing that one could do. Sadly, the majority were of the opinion that he had brought shame to the house, and it was well within their powers to make his life around the common room rather uncomfortable.

Damned Hufflepuffs were worse than Gryffindors, when it came to protecting their values.

He saw the door that he sought approaching on his left, and pushed the thought of troublesome house-mates out of his mind for now. None had confronted him openly about it, not yet at least. And if any did try and start trouble… well, he flexed his scarred knuckles, he knew a way out that was pretty effective.

The door swung inward soundlessly, by magic or engineering Tristan couldn't tell. Despite there clearly being no other presence in the corridor, he cast a last furtive glance back each way before pulling it shut behind him.

What the room had been in a former life, he couldn't guess. Too large to be a broom cupboard, certainly too small for a classroom or office, it was lit now with a dull, smoky light, giving the cramped space a hazy cast. He wasn't alone, he could tell as soon as he entered. And when his eyes finally adjusted, he saw the reason why he was here sat primly in a single, rickety chair, studying the blank wall before her as if it were the most breathtaking scenery.

She wore a black lace veil that hid her features. He couldn't make out the colour of her hair in the hazy light, but it didn't matter, he knew her well enough. Hence the secrecy.

There was no other chair; barely room for him to stand, and so he shuffled from foot to foot awkwardly for a moment, before clearing his throat.

'Er, I came,' he said to the top of her head.

'So soon? I'd have hoped you'd last at least a few minutes for me.' She reached up to take his hand, and Tristan jerked it back as if stung.

Credit to her, he'd walked right into that. He would have to be on his toes. It was a lot less comfortable when _she_ was throwing his jokes back at _him._

'Look, can we get this out of the way quickly? We both know it would make James uncomfortable.'

Though the veil hid her eyes, Tristan could still make out the twitch of her lips up into a cruel smile.

'And isn't that half the fun?'

'You know why I'm here. My cause transcends mortal bonds. It is…' he trailed off, for once unable to keep up the bravado. 'Just tell me where the book is.'

'Can't a woman play with her food a little before eating? Tell me, does our dear Chloe know where you are?'

Tristan shifted uncomfortably. 'She'd better not.' That girl had a damned uncanny knack for knowing where he was at any given moment.

'Leave it to the most studious ones to put the most effort into their… hunt.'

Tristan certainly didn't like it being referred to as a _hunt._

'Look, I've got other ways of finding the book, you know.'

'Oh, but you don't, my dear. And we both know it. Come closer; let me give you what you want.'

Tristan awkwardly crouched down. She pressed her lips to his ear. Her breathing was suddenly heavy, and it sent waves of uncomfortable shivers through Tristan's body. When he straightened again, he had the location. The veiled visage returned to studying the barren wall, though the quirk of a smile on her lips was now unmistakeable.

'Why do I feel like I'm selling my soul to get this?' Tristan asked, half to himself.

'Oh, darling, I'll take more than just your soul by the time I'm finished...'

It was with great relief that Tristan shut the door on the sounds of her laughter, and fled back up to the safety of the Hufflepuff common room.


	13. Midnight Tides & Mistimed Smoke

The cold was setting everyone's nerves on edge.

The seven members of the Hogwarts Quidditch team sat around the edges of the room in silence. Some fidgeted, some stared blankly, and others could have been sleeping. The only thing that united them was that they were all freezing.

'Put that wand away Weasley,' Odette snapped. 'I told you no warming charms. It's cold out there; you had best get used to it. I'm not having a bunch of pansies trotting out onto the field and dropping the Quaffle because their hands aren't ready for the cold.'

'Who died and made you Queen Death Eater,' Fred mumbled.

James cast a glance towards the bathrooms, where Ava Adams was currently doubled over the rim of a toilet, relieving herself of her breakfast.

'Do her some good to lose a bit of weight,' Odette muttered.

James scowled. He scowled at Odette, at Preston Lynch, who sat polishing a broomstick that clearly didn't need it, he even scowled at a tiny bug scurrying across the floor by his feet. They were about to run out for their first Tournament match of the season, and everything felt _wrong._

The team wasn't even close to coming together. One bad practice had bled into another. Preston Lynch continued to be an arse – James shot him another glare for good measure – Jen Redfern had sent a Bludger into Odette's wrist "on accident" the week just past, and wands were drawn. Ava had reached the end of her tether after that, and practically broken down in front of them. Now, it appeared, she was beset by a crippling bout of nerves.

It was a far cry from the upbeat, focused atmosphere that Ryan O'Flaherty had brought to the Gryffindor sheds before every match.

Who would have thought, James mused darkly, that a bunch of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds would be unprepared on a stage of this magnitude.

When Ava finally did return her face was pallid and her hair was lank. Tears still pooled in the corners of her eyes, but her smile was back.

'Now, I know we might be feeling a _teensy_ bit under-prepared-' she began.

'Would have thought that's the Captain's responsibility,' Odette whispered loud enough for _everyone_ to hear.

'- but, _as I was saying,_ I've got a really good feeling about today's game. James, what's our weather report?'

James started. His focus was so heavily inward that he'd forgot he was in charge of monitoring conditions.

'Oh, er, gusty northerly. Blowing straight down from the mountains.'

'And cold as a Hag's tit,' growled Odette.

'Erm… sure. It's going to favour an attack up the right side. Passing that way will be with the wind, but shooting will be against it. From what I've heard the Blue's Enabler broke her arm last week and she's still a bit shy about using it. They'll be attacking up our right to protect her. I say we attack up the left. We'll be moving the Quaffle into the wind a bit more, but it opens up a whole new range of scoring shots when we're shooting with the breeze.'

Ava nodded, impressed, and gestured for him to continue.

'Visibility is fine; overcast, so no glare. Main concern is going to be keeping our hands warm up there. So, wear some gloves, or something…'

James trailed off lamely. With the death of his brief monologue, his focus was free to return to fretting about the match uninhibited. He shot a fleeting glance back in the direction of the bathrooms. Just in case.

'Super work, James!' A little colour was returning to Ava's cheeks. Strength drawn from busying about being the world's most positive captain, James assumed. 'Preston, I want you to play that left wing side like a Finisher. You've got the strongest arm. James, you'll be the Enabler, and I'll play the right wing as a sort of half-and-half. I won't have the strength to shoot very well into this wind, so the majority of our shots will go through Preston. Happy?'

Preston looked ecstatic. 'Just make me look good, Potter. That shouldn't be hard.'

'You can polish a turd, but it'll still stink,' Fred shot back.

'Play nice, boys.' Ava admonished. 'Fred, I want you playing the left side, Jenny-'

'Don't call me that.' Jen's brows were knitted in a threatening scowl.

'Er, ok, super! Jen…nifer? You can play on the right. Please?'

She gave a single nod of acquiescence.

Ava continued on, outlining their game plan for the third time that day. Pretty soon, James had switched off. She was trying to keep the nerves at bay, force a sense of plodding, generic routine into their pre-match ritual, to take away the sharp edges and biting nerves that came with dwelling on what they were about to face.

Preston Lynch was busy wondering aloud how many goals he would score, and if he could beat the Beauxbatons team all by himself. James' mood grew darker with each passing boast, until his grip on his broom was white-knuckle fierce.

Finally, the cannon sounded from the stadium. Their cue to enter. The team shed their warm-up jackets and outer layers together. Rippling black silk shimmered on the back of that icy wind.

'Ha! Nice name, Potter,' Lynch jeered.

James spun, confused, to see Preston Lynch pointing at the back of his robe. He pulled the fabric around for a better look. In brilliant red and gold, his name was emblazoned, spelled "Pottey" instead of "Potter".

'You little _rat,'_ Fred swore, lunging at Lynch. .

James placed his broom aside – gently – and leapt forwards at Lynch. He struggled to get him in a headlock, and received an elbow in the stomach for his troubles. Fred looked to be punching some part of him that was eliciting a little grunt each time his fist connected. James grabbed Lynch's throwing arm and twisted it-

 _Wham!_

He felt as if a giant hand had ripped him free from the melee, throwing him across the room and pressing him up against a locker. He struggled to move his hands. His mouth felt gummed up and couldn't form words. All he could do was scowl across the room at Lynch, currently in a similar situation.

The door to the changing rooms had been flung open, the team was assembling. Well, _half_ of the team, at least. Odette appeared in James' vision, only inches from his face.

'If you three don't drop this baby act the moment we walk through that door, I swear, by all the Founders, I'm going to jam my boot so far up your arses you'll all be tasting leather for weeks. And trust me, it won't be comfortable; I'm wearing heels.'

With that, she released the spell, and all three boys sagged back to the floor. They hurried out towards the door, as the applause that rolled in from the stands had halted, waiting on the remainder of the team. Fred fixed James' shirt with his wand – albeit a little crookedly.

They followed Odette out onto the pitch. Even through the hazy rage at Preston Lynch James was able to spare a moment to be amazed. She _was_ wearing heels. To a Quidditch match!

The atmosphere within the stadium punched the breath clean out of James' lungs as he took those first steps onto the soft, green grass. Not a seat in the whole arena was left empty. Students and teachers alike were crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder, all waving banners or flags. There were pockets of sky blue scattered throughout, but they were little more than a handful of leaves floating on the overwhelming sea of black. Everywhere James looked the students of Hogwarts were adorned head-to-toe in their darkest shade. The house stands had been repainted, great black banners hung, dozens of feet tall, stirring on the gusty northern wind.

And the _noise._ From the moment Ava had stepped onto the pitch the cries were deafening. When the team mounted as one and kicked off, it increased tenfold. The wind teased and snagged at it, trying to pull the noise from James' ears as he flew, but not even the rushing wind could drown out the uproar that the students of Hogwarts offered for their own.

At midfield, however, things were a little more frosty.

Loyal Clavet was flexing his captain's armband very pointedly in front of a fuming Odette, who was repeatedly skewering him with glares.

'A stupid ribbon doesn't make you any better of a flier,' she shot.

'Ah, we shall see just who the better flier is after today.' His smile was sickly sweet and it made James' blood boil.

Professor Hawksby nodded to both Captains, who shook hands briefly. Ava smiled. Loyal sneered.

The second cannon fire that announced the opening of the match was drowned out by the swelling roar from the crowd. It was game on.

Professor Hawksby released the Quaffle high above the waiting Chasers. The gusty wind buffeted it. James re-calculated its trajectory and zipped forwards. As Enabler, it was his job to secure possession off the opening. He ducked under the flailing boot of one of the Beauxbatons Beaters, and made contact with a broad-shouldered Chaser looking to take the same path. Coming off second-best, James had to adjust his path to the plummeting Quaffle. But his adjustment put him in the line of a well-placed Bludger from the Blues, and he could do nothing but pull up in frustration, as a streak of cerulean snapped up the Quaffle and streaked off in the opposite direction.

Cursing, and now out of position, James wheeled hard and lay flat on his broom in an attempt to make up the lost ground. But his trusty old Comet 430 handed down from his mother wasn't quite as spritely as the cutting-edge French broomsticks, and the Beauxbatons Chasers used their numbers advantage to easily slot a goal through the left hoop.

The crowd stuttered, as if confused. Not even half a minute had passed. The ring of opening cannon-fire was still sounding in James' ears. He sheepishly avoided eye contact with his team members.

'The hell was that, Potter?' Lynch roared from the left side of the pitch. 'I've seen glaciers with quicker reactions than that. You _trying_ to make us lose?'

'Get off his back, Lynch,' Odette growled from where she circled up high, losing valuable seconds looking for the Snitch to intervene.

'Worried there won't be enough room for you?' Lynch mocked. Odette hissed in reply, but James had the Quaffle in hand off the restart. Play had resumed.

Leaving Lynch scowling, James streaked up the centre of the field with only Ava for support. A sea of black banners from the stands urged him onwards. He performed a move the team called Greenhouse Two, a quick one-two pass with Ava, where the Quaffle was in her hands for less than a second. It had the desired effect; drawing in one Beauxbatons defender who lunged in Ava's direction. Before he knew it, however, the Quaffle was back in James' hands, and the Hogwarts pair were tearing off up the pith together.

Lynch joined, swinging wide on his left flank, easily making up the ground on his far superior broom. James was eyeing up the goal hoops now; they were over half-way and pushing hard. The remaining defenders were cheating towards Ava's side of the pitch. James looked in Lynch's direction; he was wide open. But the whip-like sting of his words returned upon seeing his sneering face, and the fact that he had tried to sabotage James' jersey… He _was_ quite wide out on that wing. Perhaps too far for James to force a pass into the wind.

James levered himself up and slung a side-arm toss in Ava's direction. The wind gusted, picking up the Quaffle and lofting it high. The Beauxbatons defender was waiting hungrily, and snatched it up with ease. Suddenly, their out-of-position teammate from earlier was in the perfect spot to receive a pass, and he tore off to put Beauxbatons up twenty to zero inside a minute of play.

James slapped the handle of his broom in frustration, succeeding in no more than stinging his hand.

'You idiot Potter! I was wide open! What the hell is going through that tiny brain of yours?'

James threw Lynch his darkest look. 'Too wide out,' he growled. 'Into the wind.'

Mercifully, play restarted before James had to fumble for any more excuses.

The crowd, so expectant and full of life before the match, was starting to sag. Black banners hung limp. Confused murmurs replaced cheers. Snippets of French chanting seemed to add a tailwind to the brooms of the Beauxbatons teams.

James caught sight of his friends for a fleeting second. Tristan was yelling madly through cupped hands. Cat waved a giant flag at least five times her own size. It must have been blocking the few of no fewer than thirty students behind her. James smiled for the first time that game. The faithful remained true.

Beauxbatons took the Quaffle and started up the pitch. They were in a staggered formation out to the right side of the pitch. The Blue's Enabler, a long slender girl with raven hair, held the Quaffle loosely in her left hand. At a barked command, they split, perfectly synchronised. The Enabler headed in James' direction. The others taking a flank each. James dove towards her. A streaking black blur from his periphery caused him to drop low and left. His body had shielded Fred's approaching Bludger from his counterpart, and it struck her clean in her throwing shoulder. The Quaffle tumbled free and James was in perfect position to scoop it up.

With the comfortable weight in his hands, he finally felt like something in the game was going right. He zipped under an errant Bludger sent his way by the Blues, and sensed, rather than saw, support to his left. He lofted a pass at the last second, drawing in the Beauxbatons defender and leaving Lynch one on one with the Keeper. A screamer of a shot through the right-hand goal hoop injected instant vitality into the crowd.

'Way to go James!' Ava screamed.

'Pass was too soft, Potter. Almost didn't make it in time. Just do your job. Make me look good. That's not too much for you, is it?

'If I have to come down there and bang your heads together, I swear to Merlin I'll do it so hard I'll be painting the walls with your tiny brains,' Odette growled from above.

James looked away, somewhat cowed. She looked to have her hands full up there. There was no hint of the overt affection usually dripping off of her and Loyal up above. It was all elbows and nails as each tried to force an edge to the Snitch.

 _It's worth it for the team,_ James tried to tell himself. Although Lynch's stupid sneering face kept appearing in his vision, every time he forced himself to repeat the refrain.

With the crowd back on their side, the Hogwarts team flew a little faster, turned a little sharper all across the pitch. Despite that, however, they still allowed Beauxbatons to score two more unanswered goals. Each time, according to Lynch, it was James' fault.

'Stop playing so passive, Potter! Knock her off her broom, she's only a girl!'

' _Hey!'_ came the unanimous cry from Ava, Jen and Odette. Sadly, that act of outrage was the most in-sync the Hogwarts team had been all day.

Equally distressing, was the Bludger fired in Lynch's direction shortly after that statement from one of his own team members. Fred and Jen both looked over their shoulders at Lynch's outrage, oozing wide-eyed innocence.

Somehow, in the heat of their inwards-facing rivalry, the Quidditch match itself had taken a back seat. The game was forty to ten inside of ten minutes, and the team was already turning on itself. Lynch wouldn't pass to James. James was returning the favour with interest. Ava, unsure of how to get the feuding rivals in line, was trying to pass enough to make up for both of them, and as a result was intercepted on back-to-back plays, resulting in two more quick goals for Beauxbatons. They were floundering badly.

Their next opportunity to score came after James picked off a wobbly pass from the Beauxbatons Enabler after she had to swerve to dodge a Bludger mid-throw. He tucked the Quaffle under his arm and belted off towards the goals. Wind whipped past him, rushing in his ears so loud that he could imagine that the deflated crowd was, in fact, still cheering for their ailing team.

Lynch was on his left. _Just do it,_ he growled to himself. It was the perfect opportunity for another Greenhouse Two manoeuvre to beat the last defender. It would leave James wide open to take his first shot of the day. He could see the Blue's Keeper tensing already. She was right-handed. A shot low into the corner of the left hoop would get her.

At the last possible second, James dropped off the pass, right into Lynch's lap. It was perfectly weighted, and sold the defender, causing him to jerk towards Lynch at the last second on a wobbly, frantic course.

James was one-on-one with the Keeper now, it was a perfect scoring opportunity. All he needed was the Quaffle.

He noted this right about the same time he realised he wasn't going to _get_ the Quaffle.

Lynch, ignoring James completely, was trying to drive low and flat underneath the defender. James could tell it wasn't going to work. The defender could tell it wasn't going to work. The sharp intake of over a thousand breaths around the stadium told James the entire _crowd_ could tell it wasn't going to work.

And, wonder of wonders, it didn't work. The burly Beauxbatons defender careened straight into Lynch, knocking the pair of them off their brooms together. James' groan was echoed by everyone in a black robe as the Quaffle was snagged by a Chaser in blue, who used it to add further to the Hogwarts misery.

James didn't say a word to Lynch when he regained the air after the collision – albeit a little more wobbly than before. He felt like that incident was a sign of some sorts; they had taken their petty feud far enough. Someone was going to get hurt, or worse, they'd lose the match, if they kept it up. They were now eighty to ten down. A seven goal deficit wasn't insurmountable. Not if they played like a team.

James bit back on every retort from that point on. He swallowed every criticism that Lynch continued to throw his way, and didn't react to any of the barbs he seemed intent on flinging. The Hogwarts team slowly clawed their way back to relevance. The crowd – those who still remained in the stadium – were lethargic. The early embarrassment had left them reeling, and even back-to-back goals from Ava engendered little more than a feeble _whoop_ in between verses of the incessant French chanting and songs.

At one-hundred ten to sixty, James was beginning to feel like they could do it. The Snitch had been seen once, hovering low over the centre of the pitch, and Odette had had the edge to it, before a perfect Bludger had sent her careening into the turf to avoid injury. The bitter laughter from her counterpart in blue as he had flown past did little to mend diplomacy between the lovers-turned-enemies who circled above the match.

James had the Quaffle in hand, and was doing remarkably well tuning out Lynch's relentless cries for possession. The reassuring weight tucked under his arm, the tug and whip of the wind gusting across his path. This was what Quidditch ought to be about. Finally, Lynch really _was_ open, and James shifted to throw him possession, but a last-second Bludger cleaned him out, and James' pass flopped lamely down to the turf below.

James had thought he was becoming annealed to Lynch's childish, irksome ways. He thought he was doing an upstanding job of ignoring the little darts that sought to find a chink in his armour. That was, until Lynch went to the one place he well knew he wasn't allowed to go.

'What the hell was that Weasley? That Bludger was yours! Your dead uncle would make a better Beater than you!'

Fred's Beaters' bat flew in Lynch's direction, narrowly missing his face. Fred wasn't far behind, and James found himself rushing into join the fray.

Professor Hawksby was furiously blowing his whistle to signal a foul. James could feel the disappointment in the Hogwarts crowd's groan.

'You dirt-chewing Flobberworms, wait till I get down there, I'm going to- _fuck!'_

James paused in his rush to attack Lynch, just in time to see Odette, who had been tearing in to rip them apart, jerk around violently: the Snitch had been seen.

Loyal was a sky-blue streak against the pewter sky, high above the far goal hoops, plummeting from his lofty height with captivating speed. Odette was a blur of midnight, haring off at as fast as she dared. But even from this distance, James could tell that Loyal had both the better angle and the shorter distance to cover. The Snitch hovered, as if frozen in fright under the scrutiny of a thousand-odd-and-fourteen pairs of eyes.

Odette zipped flawlessly through the centre hoop, but even those acrobatics weren't enough, as Loyal Clavet had already closed his fist around the Snitch, ending the game, and underlining Hogwarts' misery.

From the distance, James could hear Loyal's smug remarks directed at Odette. 'It seems we now know who is the better flier, _mon amour.'_

Odette hissed in response. 'Yet again you finish early. No surprises there.' She wheeled away and shot back to the changing sheds, ignoring them all.

Following the match, James didn't know which was worse: Odette's righteous fury, threatening every shade of murder and overturning everything in sight; Ava's pouty disapproval that reeked of disappointment; or the look Fred gave him when everyone else had left, that James couldn't hide from – their role in this was explicit. They'd cost the team the game.

James eventually waved Fred on. He wanted to be alone for a while, to wallow a little more in the self-pity. The carnage around, left behind in Odette's wake was the perfect setting for his misery. The dirty clothes and splintered chairs spread about was the turmoil of his distress. And the great smear of mud across the Hogwarts banner that Odette told him he had put there with his performance was a constant grating reminder.

He wanted to apologise, but he also wanted to strangle Preston Lynch. _He_ had been the one to start it, not James. If Lynch hadn't tried to mess with James' jersey before the match, James wouldn't have held back on that pass, and then…

It was a fool's game, playing " _what if"_ with himself, but that bitter consolation was the only company he had.

Or so he thought.

'Go now, do the smoke!' A voice hissed from behind a suspicious-looking broom rack, that James was sure hadn't been there a moment ago.

'I told you I'm not indulging your pointless eccentricities.'

'Don't talk to _me_ about indulging! Thirteen chocolate frogs. That's right, I counted! How are you supposed to be my muscle if you end up as slow and jiggly as a Welsh Whimperstamp?'

'You made that word up.'

'Did not.'

James cleared his throat audibly.

'A-ha!' a figure leapt out from behind the broomstick stand, arms flung wide in what must have been – in his mind – a grandiose gesture.

A second, much larger figure – the muscle, James guessed – strode out with much less pomp and ceremony.

'Our unparalleled wit and boundless cunning have surprised you!' the smaller one cried. 'I am the Magnificent-'

Just then, a small explosion shook the room, and a thick cloud of purple smoke exploded right at the intruder's feet. He seemed to have inhaled a good lungful of it, and spent the next minute hacking and coughing, clutching his throat dramatically. James began to worry if he really was dying.

'Oops,' said Muscle.

'Do you see what I have to deal with?!' cried the small one. 'Such idiocy!'

James guessed from the satisfied smile on Muscle's broad face, that he wasn't quite as idiotic as his partner made out.

'Do I know you?' James asked, far more jaded than curious.

'Of course not!' cried the small one with a sinister smile. 'For anonymity is our calling-card. We are faceless, we are merely a malevolent entity. Night-time tales told to frighten first-years! We are… the _Lenders.'_

James' mouth hung agape. _These_ idiots? He thought back to first-year, and the terrifying, truly faceless figures of Silk and Deep-Voice. Instinctively, he went for his wand. It wasn't there.

'What the-'

'A-ha!' That seemed to be the small one's favourite saying. 'No wand for you!'

James looked up to see Muscle holding his precious wand between thumb and forefinger. It swung lazily back and forth. 'Nicked it while you were mid-wallow,' Muscle grinned.

'No, no, you idiot, it was _after_ the wallow! It was between the moping and the commiserating. Or was it the brooding and the moping… no, there was definitely commiserating in there somewhere. Ah, I digress.'

A very familiar sinking feeling was returning to the pit of James' stomach. 'The silly little chocolate in our Quidditch robes…'

'Silly-!'

'Aye, it was us,' Muscle interjected. He gestured to himself. 'Ambrose. This is Heath.'

'Lord Braxton of Heathcote Manor!' Heath spluttered. 'And I'll thank you to call me as such!'

'You've a fair few family members left to murder before you get any sort of claim to Heathcote manner, my friend.' Ambrose's calm smile was at odds with his chilling words.

'What do you want this time?' James asked, tired and fed-up with everything.

'We want our chocolate back,' Heath stated matter-of-factly. His large eyes blinked owlishly.

'Erm, _what?_ '

'Them's the rules,' Ambrose explained. 'We give you the gift beforehand, to let you know we're coming after you. If you can figure us out and beat us, you get to keep the gift. If not, we take it back.'

'You see, we're much more _fair_ than our predecessors,' Heath explained. 'Quite the gentlemen, really.'

'You're insane,' James told them. 'I threw it out days ago.'

'What? That's not in the rules. Ambrose, tear him limb from limb! Eviscerate him! Grind his bones to make your bread, all of that.'

'I'll do no such thing.' There was a healthy roll of the eyes implied in Ambrose's tone.

'What good are you as a minion if you won't even do my bidding?!'

'Wait a minute,' James growled. 'You _came after_ us?'

'Nothing personal,' Ambrose explained. 'We received several _very_ hefty sums of Galleons betting that Hogwarts was going to win. Naturally, we didn't want to part with all of that beautiful gold.'

'And what better way to do it than to wiggle down into cracks that are already there! So easy to pull apart the foundations of a team when the mortar is not even set. Or better yet, rotten to its core! A slight here, a Pottey there…'

'You!' James snarled. He made to leap upright, but found himself frozen in place. Ambrose was shaking his head sadly.

'It's not protocol to divulge the exact methods,' Heath took on a sulky look. 'But aye, it was us. It only took the gentlest of nudges though, I must say. Don't be upset at us; you had warning, that's how we work. We're just doing the job we were chosen for. You'd be surprised the amount of Galleons at stake in a large-scale tournament such as this.'

'Speaking of which,' Heath whispered conspiratorially,' 'have you heard that Hogwarts is bringing match-fixing allegations against Beauxbatons for the First Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament? Now, I'm no expert, but it looks to me like the claims might have some substance. They're bringing it to the Wizenagmot, so I've heard.

'France is lovely this time of year, by the way.'

Ambrose just gave a blank shrug and tossed James his wand back. 'Catch you around, Potter,' he grinned. 'You haven't seen the last of us yet.


	14. Flickering Shadows & Fervent Searches

The shadows were long and deep, and they melted before James' eyes.

A scattering of candles provided meagre light to the sealed room. The oppressive darkness and the rough-hewn walls spoke more to a cave than any man-made feature. Three hooded figures stood across from him, intermittently visible on the wings of fitful light. A low resonating hum filled the chamber, a chant, to add a heavy religious air to the gathering. The sound seemed to bounce off of the hard stone walls and come back invigorated, vibrating deep within James' chest, until he couldn't tell whether or not he was humming along as well, adding his own voice to the gathering baritone storm.

In the centre of the four, rotating slowly above the thickest gathering of candles, was a folded scrap of parchment. He could see the glint of his companions' eyes as they flicked repeatedly back to it, the source of their gathering, and the very reason for their tight-lipped secrecy.

The intonation suddenly stopped

'Gentlemen,' Tristan whispered. His words flowed into the hollow void that followed their chanting, a gentle susurrus morphing from the low growl that preceded it. All gathered leaned in closer. 'The glory that attends this most sacred of texts has been laid at our feet, and so cruelly stripped from our grasps. Now, our conscience – nay, our honour – demands we right this wrong. We must strike out from this place with haste to retain our treasured prize. But take a care, for we carry with us the hopes of the entire male population of Hogwarts on our shoulders. For only we few chosen can complete this most Holy mission.'

'C'mon, what's it say?' Clip hissed impatiently, shattering the façade and momentarily leaving Tristan's act in pieces at his feet. He took a moment to collect himself.

'I haven't- er, that is to say… The burden of knowledge was too great for me to bear alone, so I have chosen to share the discovery with the worthy few.'

Four sets of eyes turned to the floating sheet of parchment. Tristan threw out his hand, levelling his fingers directly at it.

'Reveal your secrets!' Tristan's grand gesture would have been much more impressive if the whispered spell he uttered to open the parchment didn't echo all about the room for the others to hear.

They all hurried in to cluster around the sheaf.

'Ow, Fred, that was my toe!'

'I can't read that at all.'

'Whose idea was it to do this in a pitch dark room?'

'It adds to the effect, here, let me get closer.'

'Does anyone smell toast?'

James looked down, and yelled as he saw a thick streamer of smoke curling from the hem of his robe; he had trod right on a candle, and it appeared it wanted vengeance.

After a short sequence of yelping and running and poorly-aimed _Aguamenti_ charms, the boys settled with lighting their wands to read the parchment. James, now soaked from the waist down, pored over the paper whose secrets were finally revealed.

'It's a map,' hissed Fred. 'There, that corner is circled!'

'But what are these numbers?' Clip was pointing to the lower corner of the page.

They stared for a moment. James took the page in one hand and turned it ninety degrees to the left.

'Hold on… I know where this is! That's the Library!' he gestured to a familiar, albeit hastily-drawn layout. 'This is the little alcove where the Quidditch books are, I'd recognise that anywhere! And down that way is Transfiguration, I think. The little corner that's circled is where I saw Odette getting… well, never mind that. I know where it is!'

'What if this is the shelf number?' Clip suggested. 'Fourth shelf up and… and the sixth book along!'

Tristan was beside himself. He kept looking from the page to the door and back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, unable to form words.

'It's the perfect hiding spot,' Fred grudgingly admitted. 'The classic hide a book in a Library. Even if we'd known it was in there, I don't think we'd have found it.'

'I would have turned every book in that place inside out to locate the Sacred Text,' Tristan breathed.

'Well now we don't need to. Let's go!'

The boys practically tripped over one another to get out the door. They stumbled out into the corridor beyond, blinking stupidly for a moment to readjust their eyesight – it was only dinner time, and so numerous torches and candelabra marched along down the wall providing a warm glow against the chilly air. Hogwarts' ever-present draughty breeze was icy against his sodden trousers and socks.

They tried to look casual, striding down the several staircases that were the final obstacle between themselves and their prize. They tried to walk normally, and not arouse suspicion. They'd chosen this time while everyone was at dinner so as to have fewer potential eyes upon them. They utterly blew their calm façade out of the water after the third staircase in a row switched only moments before they arrived, and they had to double back, yet again.

'Curse you Hogwarts!' Tristan roared, shaking his fist at the abyss before them. 'I will take what is rightfully mine!'

Fred cleared his throat pointedly.

'Erm, I mean, Fred's.'

They finally arrived in the library short of breath and gasping. The three others shielded James' sopping form from the hawklike gaze of Madam Cresswell, and they sidled sheepishly past the entrance and into the library proper.

They managed to let out only the odd squeak of excitement and anticipation as they made their way towards the spot outlined on the map. So close were they now, that everyone was on edge. James spotted Lily not far from their destination, pored over a dusty tome with, naturally, Nerissa Sayre. His attempt at a non-suspicious 'Hi Lily!' came out more of a frightened yell than anything, and it caused Tristan to jump a mile, as if he'd just walked through a ghost.

Finally, they arrived. Clip held out the piece of parchment while all four tried to match wonky lines to actual walls around them.

'This is definitely it,' James assured them.

'Then it's got to be… here!' Tristan yelled, leaping to the outlined shelf. He instantly started counting rows and books. The others all crowded around behind him.

'Where is it?' Clip asked. The shortest of the lot, he was struggling to see over their shoulders.

'I don't… I don't know.' A thick edge of panic was creeping into Tristan's voice.

'Maybe the numbers were wrong. What if we count up from the bottom, or from the other side?'

James looked at the spot on the shelf their book ought to have been. A battered copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ sat there and stared defiantly back.

They tried every single way to count rows that they could think of. They, increasingly frantically, tore out books and clambered up shelves. If Madam Cresswell has seen them, they'd likely have been flayed alive. James even back-tracked to ask Lily if she'd seen anyone enter the alcove, but her and Nerissa were gone, their book left open on a page about identifying subjects of a Confundus Charm.

Defeated, James traipsed back to their alcove. Books were scattered about like there had been some sort of war for the shelves. A damp little puddle had pooled near the spot where the book _should_ have been. He headed over to it, and picked up the stupid _Hogwarts: A History_ that stood in its place.

The book fell open at the barest of touches, showing a page about the Hogwarts Kitchens. But James paid that detail no heed, as an identical scrap of parchment to the one that had led them here stood up proudly, tucked into the binding.

'Guys,' he whispered, plucking it out reverently. They hurried over.

 _Do not think our game is over yet. This is only the beginning. Meet me at the time and place below. Come alone._

Tristan let loose a roar of pure anguish, snatching the note and dashing back the way they had come. The others followed a little more despondently, finding him at the desk Lily had occupied, his chest heaving and murder barely holding at bay the defeat in his eyes.

'What is that all about?' James asked, gesturing at the note.

Tristan took a long time to compose himself, and was still shaking slightly when he looked up to face James. 'These things were sent to try us,' he said sagely. 'But our conviction is pure. I will not be defeated. We will prevail. I will go to this meeting and demand justice. It is our right.'

'Who in Merlin's name is making a racket in my library?' Madam Cresswell's voice barrelled between the bookshelves. The boys shared a look of terror and fled towards the exit together.

It was with heavy hearts and empty stomachs that the boys trudged listlessly down the staircase towards the Great Hall. The hour was late, but with a bit of luck a little dessert might still be around to scavenge and at least fill one of the voids in their chests. It had all seemed so worth it with the promise of success looming just beyond the horizon, that none had even stopped to consider the price of failure.

'We should set up an ambush for this secret informant of yours, Tristan,' Fred suggested darkly. He jabbed his wand at a nearby portrait for good measure, and set a gaggle of elderly witches ducking for cover behind their dinner table.

'No,' Tristan barked a little harshly, before reigning himself in a little. 'We'd just scare her- I mean them off.'

The three others immediately jumped on that.

' _Her?'_ Fred teased. 'No wonder you want to do all of this alone!'

'What does Chloe think of all of this?' James asked. Tristan paled at the very mention of her name.

'It sounds to me like Tristan might be enjoying the hunt at least as much as he'll enjoy the prize,' Clip was grinning ear to ear. 'Will you at least give us the identity?'

'Not even if Hell froze over.'

As one, the three eyed Tristan suspiciously as they descended the last flight of stairs. Fred's stomach rumbled audibly. James could smell fresh treacle tart wafting out from the Great Hall. Though the Entrance Hall was deserted, and not a student could be seen, there was yet hope to salvage the night.

'I bet it's Viola Greengrass, trying to get back at Holly,' Fred suggested.

'Or Georgia Braithwaite,' Clip added. 'She's more your type.'

'Or what if it's Holly, and she's had a change of heart?'

'Holly would be more likely to lead us to the bottom of the Black Lake than anything,' James muttered darkly.

'I haven't-' Tristan began, but was cut off as one of the doors down to the dungeons slammed open, as if under an imaginary gale. It crashed into the wall so hard it bounced half-closed again. A modest hail of splinters pattered to the cobblestones, and a single hinge grated, damaged by the impact.

The boys turned slowly towards it. James' wand slid out form his sleeve, and he held it ready in his hand.

'What the-?' Fred began, but James held up a hand to silence him.

He could hear something, a distant sound, building slowly, getting louder with every passing second. He searched for the source, and quickly realised that it was emanating from that very door which had just open. A small gust, as if a precursor to whatever approached, stirred a pile of dust on the floor before the open portal, which now loomed dark and foreboding against the comparatively-garish lights of the Entrance Hall.

With a growing sense of dread that he couldn't fully explain, James signalled for the others to take cover. They crouched behind the balustrade of the staircase. All four wands were drawn. The noise began to coalesce, becoming something cogent and real. It sounded to James like a distant scream torn free from an unwilling throat, building in pitch and in volume with every passing second. He wasn't the only one to shudder uncomfortably.

'We should get a teacher,' Clip hissed.

James looked down the last half of the stairs and across the seemingly interminable stretch of floor to the Great Hall. The torches outside the entranceway were beginning to flicker in the building wind.

'Be my guest,' he gestured. Clip didn't move a muscle.

James tried to catch the attention of the last few denizens dining in the Great Hall, but all he could see was a dusting of desserts on the end of the Hufflepuff table. The problem of food was suddenly seeming a long way away.

The doorway that had slammed open now creaked back and forth, it's one damaged hinge letting out a mournful, grating cry of iron on iron, to which the torchlight dance and flickered under the force of a breeze that James still couldn't feel. The sound continued to burgeon in his ears, until he was sure he could feel the breath of the screamer upon his neck. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, despite the chilly air.

Without warning, the crashed open once more, and the boys looked on as _something_ burst forth. A sort of blossoming darkness that snuffed the torches and quelled all thought of light. It was as if all of the dingy shadows form the Dungeons were set free into the castle above, and they gleefully smothered all light on their way. James squinted, trying to make out shapes in its midst, but the dark was absolute. He grabbed a handful of Fred's robe in one hand, and brought a spell to his lips, raising his wand with the other.

' _Lumos Sol-'_ but the spell was choked back as he gagged on an thick waft of the unmistakeable smell of rot and decay.

Before he could grab the others and flee, however, the dark wind was gone. The doors to the courtyard outside stood ajar, and the lights of the Entrance Hall burned merrily, as if nothing had ever been present to bother them. A pair of Hufflepuff students appeared arm-in-arm, strolling off towards the basement, blissfully unaware of anything having just occurred.

'You can _not_ tell me _that_ was nothing,' James rounded on the others, still visibly shaken.

'I've heard misfired spells that could do worse,' Clip countered.

'And I suppose these spells just _happen_ to smell like the Infected curse, as well?'

'Mate, the dungeons reek in general,' Fred interjected, one eye on a giant Pavlova they could spy in the Great Hall. 'That's why they put the Slytherins down there.'

'Come _on,'_ James practically pleaded.

'I'll admit, that wind did sort of give me the willies,' Tristan mused. The others all nodded in firm accord.

'I'd guess there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for it,' Clip said. 'The world doesn't always have to be ending, James.'

James tossed up his hands and followed the others towards the food. He was well overdue a treacle tart, or five.

Midway through his seventh – as it turned out he'd underestimated the appetite that fear induced – the boys received some strawberry-blonde company.

'Hello James Potter. Where have you boys been tonight?'

'Nowhere,' James mumbled around a mouthful of food.

'Library,' Clip squeaked, right at the same time that Fred yelled 'Quidditch Pitch.'

They likely wouldn't have lasted a day as Slytherins.

Rain seemed unperturbed, or at least uninterested. She helped herself to one of the stack of six remaining treacle tarts on James' plate and took a dainty little bite in silence. Unsure what to say, the boys contented themselves with staring awkwardly at her while she ate.

In the silence that stretched, James counted that she chewed every mouthful _thirty three_ times. Fred barely got in thirty three chews in a whole meal.

'Have you heard about this, James Potter?' Rain finally asked. There was a collective sigh of relief around the table at the death of the discomfort.

Rain produced a copy of the day's _Prophet._ The boys all piled around to get a better look.

 _Second Alder Sighting Confirmed – North Scotland Coast_

'This man who is supposedly missing has been seen yet again,' she offered. 'He is getting closer, do you think?'

'I guess,' James replied, confused. 'But what does that have to do with anything, why would he want to come here?'

'I do not know. They say he was seen entering a small coastal valley where a plant of some renown is said to blossom on the full moon. This plant is reported to have medicinal properties. Does this mean anything to you?'

'I've already told you it doesn't.' James was a bit curt with the reply.

'It doesn't seem like he's quite as captured as everyone first thought,' Fred said, chewing on a brandy snap.

'It certainly looks that way, Fred Weasley.'

Fred looked a little queasy at having Rain's full attention turned on himself.

Suddenly, she made to stand. 'I shall leave you now,' she announced to the group. 'Good night James Potter.'

The last was only for him. As she left, she traced her fingers across the back of James' hand. Still a little jumpy, the unexpected contact made him start, and look up directly into Rain's waiting gaze.

It was as if she had grabbed him by the collar and jerked him to his feet, so fierce was her grasp on his attention. James' breath caught in his throat, and it was all he could do to stare dumbly back, stricken by those sea-green eyes.

Where before there had been a feeling of falling, a slow kind of loss of orientation and gravity, this time there was only a ruthless, headlong rush through the space that yawned between them. He felt buffeted, bruised and scrutinised, like her gaze could see through him, to every corner of his soul and every little secret that he held close. When it finished, after a half-second or a half-hour, a tiny smile tweaked the corner of Rain's lips. She broke the contact, and was gone.

'She is _mental,'_ Fred whispered. All four nodded fervently in agreement, watching her every step out the door, just in case she decided to come back for them.

A sharp cuff around James' ears had him simultaneously yelping and reaching for his wand. Professor Meadows was looking down at the four of them with a stern glare. 'Has no-one taught you boys it's rude to stare?'

The four boys tripped over themselves repeatedly trying to explain that it wasn't like _that._ It was _Rain._ The very thought was terrifying.

'Off to bed with you,' she gestured with a smile, and a nod towards Fred. 'Feeding time at the zoo is over.'

The four rose together. Fred lunged for one last pumpkin pasty before the desserts disappeared, and they waddled off to their respective dormitories. James, at least, had plenty to think on.

The lack of sleep didn't help the following day's Quidditch practice, which was a disaster akin to their most recent match. Dropped Quaffles and snarky arguments abounded. Odette flitted between ignoring James completely and threatening to beat him over the head with her broom every time he made an error. After a particularly sloppy play in which he'd purposely thrown the Quaffle at Lynch's face rather than his hands, Odette got fed up and told him she wanted them both off the team.

With seeds of dissent finding such fertile soil, it was no wonder that their practices didn't improve as the term went on. The quality of their play didn't improve, though Ava tried to counter that by adding more quantity, resulting in little more than the extra hours spent together being some of the worst of James' time at Hogwarts. They all knew that it wouldn't be until after the Christmas holidays that they would get their shot at redemption on the pitch. The way things were shaping up, they'd need every single minute of practice up to that point.

The chemistry between James and Preston Lynch remained unfailingly caustic. James told himself over and again that he would be happy to play alongside his rival; if only he'd apologise first. Lynch was having absolutely none of it, and repeated the refrain that he'd done nothing wrong, and the calamity they found themselves in was entirely James' fault. Each time the two butted heads it deepened the cracks developing within the team. Even Ava's eternally bright façade was beginning to falter.

To make matters worse, a month after their first match, Beauxbatons defeated Durmstrang on the pitch, thanks to a daring Wronskei Feint performed by Loyal Clavet in front of a packed stadium.

James couldn't even find any satisfaction in the massive fight that broke out between Loyal and Odette when the former seemed a little too intent on bathing in the added female attention his victories were bringing him. All that their now-constant fighting served to do was to make her more bitter and nasty during the Hogwarts trainings, and in turn make James' own life more miserable.

Perhaps the single silver lining that could have come from it all was one of the Durmstrang students James recognised from their Hogsmeade trip sidling up to him after the match, and indicating that it might be time the two schools "pooled their resources" to reign in the Beauxbatons winning machine, and Loyal Clavet.

The straw that broke the Thestral's back, however, was an owl he received from his family a couple of weeks before Christmas holidays. Both of his parents were having to travel for work, and with the risk of the Infected on the rise outside of Hogwarts, they thought it best if he, Al and Lily would stay at school for the holidays. Harry assured them that he had a surprise in store to make up for it, but it took James a full three days to shake off his dark mood, during which time he snapped at all of his friends at least once, and spent long hours of the day staring at the roof above his bed in a listless stupor.

After one morning spent in such a mood, James found himself traipsing across the grounds with Fred, Tristan and Clip towards the Greenhouses. The first snowfall of the year had arrived the night past, only a light dusting, just enough to coat the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest, and enough to turn any path across the grounds into a treacherous bog for the unprepared. The four of them were bundled up in their thickest woollen robes. Their breath was misting out through gaps in scarves. Gestures were made with nods and grunts – gloved hands kept safe and warm deep within pockets or tucked under armpits.

Fred motioned towards the enclosure where Hagrid kept the Beauxbatons giant winged horses. The Abraxans weren't partial to the cold at all, and their response had reportedly been to triple their intake of single malt brandy. So much so that they had drunk the school dry, and emergency supplies had to be commissioned from Hogsmeade. Poor Hagrid was trundling back and forth, filling troughs by the bucket-load.

For once, James was looking forward to entering Greenhouse Six. Even with the gross, fleshy plants, it was a better fate than lingering around in this cold for a moment more than necessary. Quidditch practice that evening was sure to be notably horrid.

The boys bustled in through the door, and instantly began shedding clothing. The windows were steamed up with the heat, with fat droplets of moisture pooling in the sills. The humidity stung James' nose, and he could feel the sweat beginning to form, prickling all over his body.

He was studying the nearest _Sanocultus_ plant, sitting disgustingly innocently in its pot. The burnt-looking knobbly twigs were now about as thick as his thumb, and cracks on the trunk were oozing a clear, gelatinous liquid. They were still only about the height of James forearm, but the disgusting fleshy appendages that passed as "leaves" were now longer than James' middle finger, and at least three times as fat. They wobbled and pulsed in a nauseating manner, looking overstuffed and ready to burst at the slightest touch. James swallowed a little mouthful of bile as one seemed to turn and _look_ at him.

He'd been so busy being disgusted, that Fred's frantic elbow into his ribs caught him completely by surprise. He cursed, returned a shove angrily, before following Fred's gaze to the far end of the greenhouse, and the only two other inhabitants.

'Hello James.' Holly Brooks' voice made the winds outside seem balmy by comparison.

'Oh, er, hi Holly. How- how are you?'

Her sleeves were rolled up past the elbows, and the pale skin of her forearms were streaked with dirt and muck. Her cheeks were flushed pink from exertion, and her braid was barely hanging together. James felt a strange sort of stabbing pain in his chest.

'Just leaving, actually.' She began throwing things hastily into her back, pointedly not looking in their direction. A small mountain of phials sat next to where she had been working, filled to the brim with _Sanocultus_ sap.

'Oh, right. Cool.' James was shooting sidelong glares and Fred and Tristan to help, but both just shrugged, looking lost.

When Holly looped arms with the other Slytherin present, whom James didn't recognise, he could do nothing but gawk stupidly at the pair of them as they marched past without sparing the boys so much as a second glance. When the door swung shut behind them, four identical sighs of relief hissed into the waiting silence.

'Be thankful you've still got all your appendages,' Clip murmured.

James, however, had a slightly different concern. 'Who was that bloke, the Slytherin?'

'Dunno,' shrugged Fred. 'Older bloke it think. Fourth year, maybe.'

'Odd for a Slytherin to be hanging out with here, though,' Clip suggested. 'What with them all hating her for eternity, and all.'

Tristan looked thoughtful. 'Maybe not so odd if he thought the benefits might outweigh the losses…'

'Surely not,' Fred breathed. 'A date?'

'What?' James rounded on the pair of them. 'A date? But- but it can't be! It's lunch time. You can't go on a date to do _schoolwork._ That's… that's just _weird._ Maybe it was detention. That's probably it, right?'

'I dunno mate,' Tristan at least had the decency to look apologetic. 'I've never walked out of detention arm-in-arm with anyone before.'

'That can't be right. It can't be. She's _Holly._ She's…'

 _Mine,_ he wanted to say. But the truth was that she very clearly wasn't.

James pestered Professor Longbottom about Holly and the mystery Slytherin's activities all throughout the lesson, but got nothing in return. He quizzed the others all through that lesson, and the next. He even asked Cassie at dinner if she would want to go on a date to do school work together. She got rather quite flustered and blushed a brilliant shade of red, before Tristan had to deftly slip in and explain James was asking _theoretically,_ and not actually looking to go on a date with her.

He'd had to run far and fast to avoid the punitive justice of the Dragon Book after that one.

That night James fumed by himself, once again regressing to scowling at a single knot in the wood above his bed. Quidditch was a nightmare, he was stuck at Hogwarts for Christmas, Odette wanted to eviscerate him, and now Holly was dating some _Slytherin._ He kicked his covers away angrily. He couldn't imagine things getting much worse.


	15. Battered Broomsticks & A Christmas Gift

The Gryffindor common room in winter was one of James' favourite places to be. The fire crackled merrily away in the grate, casting heat and a warm, cosy sort of light out across the room. The rich reds of the upholstery and deep brown of the floorboards bathed in the golden glow, giving off a sense of comfort that held the whipping winds and icy gusts hammering the window panes at bay.

He was stretched out across the arms of his favourite plush chair, as close to the fire as he could shuffle it, and looking up at a spot on the ceiling that bore the faintest hint of a scorch mark he himself had put there in first year after the heat of the flames nearby set off a batch of Weasley Wildfire Whizbangs in his bag. He'd walked in on the house elves trying to clean the smudge the next morning, stacked over a dozen high, perched on one another's shoulders, with the topmost elf wiping furiously with a filthy rag that seemed to be doing more harm than good.

He wondered briefly if some third year a generation or two from now would sit in this very spot and wonder about how that mark got there. Then he thought of his father's plaque, embedded in the stone of the castle itself outside the Great Hall, or the massive memorial to Dumbledore that stood watch over the grounds. A sad legacy, indeed, if all he left behind at Hogwarts was a single, grimy smudge. His content mood soured quickly.

'Well, this sucks.' He announced to the room.

'I'm so _bored,'_ Fred added. 'Why does _everyone_ have to leave for the holidays?'

Tristan just mumbled in agreement, one eye checking his watch every other minute.

'Even Durmstrang and the Blues get to go home,' James complained.

'You know they left the Horses behind.' Fred sat up, a twinkle in his eye. 'Which means Durmstrang left their ship behind. Which means…'

' _No,'_ James and Tristan chorused. Fred shrugged sullenly.

'Who knows what sort of craziness goes on in there? And besides, it's under constant guard by the teachers.'

'Mark my words,' Fred said. 'By the time this year ends, I'll set foot on that damned ship, and by Merlin I'll make sure it's a momentous occasion.'

'Why do I feel like you've just tried to make an Unbreakable Vow,' James groaned.

Fred's only response was to smile, and tug a notebook free from his satchel bag to scribble down some hidden thoughts.

'I just wish this place wasn't such a ghost town.' James swivelled and sat up properly, prodding his pillow with his wand mindlessly, making it shrink and swell with each touch.

'Should see it in a normal year,' Tristan replied. 'I stayed back in First year. Would be lucky to have been a handful of us left. More people than ever this year. Reckon it's because of all that Infected carry-on.'

'Reckon you're right,' Fred added.

'Wish they'd do something about it.'

'The Ministry is a joke,' James spat. He knew the role they had played in ousting his entire family from power over the past few years, all for the sake of politics and re-election. He had taken up the vendetta his father seemed happy to let lie and nurtured it with enthusiasm. 'They can't solve anything. Too scared to hunt down the Desecrator, too slow to find this Dorian Alder bloke, and too stupid to find a cure for the Infected. If Dad were still there… and Aunt Hermione or Uncle Ron…'

'We'd have sorted this out years ago,' Fred finished the sentence.

'We'd have fewer Steelhearts, too,' Tristan added.

' _One_ of those creeps is too many.' James shuddered. 'They can crawl back into whatever hole they came out of.'

'That'd be Renshaw's,' Tristan shot back with a grin. The boys had to stop the conversation for a moment while they all gagged and shuddered together.

'She's been a bit quiet this year,' Fred mused, once they'd all cleared _that_ image from their head. 'Less spooky than usual.'

'Reckon her grey streak's gotten bigger,' Tristan added. 'Must be worried about something.'

'Mmm,' James mumbled. 'Thought she'd have wanted to talk after, you know… last year. Thought she'd have pulled me aside or something, you know… Dumbledore'd me.'

'What, revealed you were part of a secret prophecy to kill an all-powerful Dark Lord and to do that you needed to first die to have any hope of success?'

'Well… there's worse news to get, I suppose.'

'I'd hate to see inside that glory-hunting mind of yours, James Potter,' Tristan said, pushing himself up to his feet. 'But I'd best be off. Got to see a woman about a Book.'

'This late?'

'He fancies her. That's the only explanation. Come here, Tristan, let me smell you. I bet you've got cologne on.'

'You'll do no such thing.'

'He does! C'mon James, grab him.'

Both boys sprung forth from their chairs, but Tristan was by far the bigger and stronger of the three, and he fended them off with ease. They resorted to pelting him with names and suggestions of what he was doing and with whom, until the Fat Lady swung shut and only the fire was left to listen to their calls. As one, the boys sighed, and resorted once more to staring back up at the ceiling.

Footsteps echoed down an empty hall. They were answered by a sudden burst of noise – the rattling pane of a loose window. A small sliver of snow had crept in through the gap in the fitting, and was slowly melting into a puddle on the flagstones. With the castle this empty, there was no-one around to clean it up.

Tristan Macmillan drew his wand to take the task on himself, but in doing so, he brought his watch into vision: he was late. His wand was stowed and his steps quickened.

He had _not_ been wearing cologne. It was aftershave. And it was only because it was sitting in his trunk, unused. He may as well _try_ it.

Funny, a little voice in his mind said, that he should choose to _try_ it _tonight._

He shook his head visibly, glad there was nobody about to see him acting like a crazed Ravenclaw on exam night. Coincidence, that was all. He was on a noble and daring quest. He'd do anything to see it achieved. Anything.

Even if it meant compromising his strongest underlying values? Everything it meant for him to be a Hufflepuff? Friendships and loyalty and trust, all of those things that defined him, were they a fair price to pay to achieve his goal?

He scowled at a nearby boisterous painting, bold enough to speak up and challenge his passage. The diminutive wizard was quieted instantly. With his own house already questioning his morals, a move like that could be the final nail in his Hufflepuff coffin. He'd heard stories about the Excommunicated in his first year – a rite unique to Hufflepuff house, reserved for the unworthy. It was told that Hufflepuff, in the Founding of Hogwarts had exclaimed to "take all the rest", but she, like everyone, had their limits.

His ruminations of the darker side of Hufflepuff house were cut short, as he arrived at the agreed location. He straightened his tie, and was halfway through making sure his collar was folded properly before stopping to scowl at the blank oak door before him, the majority of his anger turned inwards. The door didn't care a whit. He shoved it aside angrily.

His frown only deepened when he entered the room. It was a classroom, though not one with which Tristan was familiar, and certainly not arranged as it currently was. All of the tables bar one had been shifted to the far corners of the room, leaving a cleared swath of flagstones, brushed clean and polished with an adept _Scourgify_ until they gleamed in the cool moonlight that puddled into the room from the pair of large bay windows looking out over the lake. The thick clouds and fitful barrages of snow could barely dim the silvery light that painted the room in stark, monochromatic shades.

A figure sat at the table, back to the window, clearly waiting for him. There was no light but for the moon, and so she was only a silhouette from this distance, but it didn't matter; Tristan well knew who she was. And it tied his stomach in knots simply thinking about it.

He strode across to the chair clearly meant for him. It was comfortable and sturdy, with a thick cushion that had been warmed by magic. Its dimensions fit him perfectly, as if it were made just for him. He hated it.

'So you think this is a game?' he growled, dispensing with any formality or introduction. 'Is this some kind of joke to you? You promised us, you promised _me_ that you'd help. And what do we get, but a wild goose chase to some obscure corner of the library, so you can look on and laugh at us? Am I supposed to be here with tail between my legs, begging for help again? Do you want me to apologise for some perceived slight, or shower you with compliments to stroke your inflated ego?

'You're messing with something sacred, something beyond you. If you'll keep playing this game, you'll regret it. Mark my words.'

Tristan's chest was heaving, his eyes were wide and wild. The grip he had on both arms of the chair was a fierce one, so that his knuckles shone white. His companion weathered the tirade with apparent indifference, though the way she was framed by the moonlight, made her face no more than a black mask, save for the low glimmer of white teeth that now shone through in an obvious smile.

'Are we quite done? Very well. Let me address your concerns by saying that I most assuredly plan on holding up my end of the bargain. You will have what you seek in due course. We did not, however, discuss exactly _how_ this would be achieved. So, let a girl play with her food a little bit, won't you?'

In the low light Tristan couldn't make out the colour of her tie, or the trim on her robe, but her words were more than enough to speak to her Slytherin allegiance.

'So what, we run around like fools until you satisfy your little game, and give in? I- we won't roll over that easy. We'll come for you.'

She chuckled, low and menacing. 'But you won't, will you. You'll never tell. I'm just a ghost to them, just mist and smoke until you make me real. And we both know you'll never do that. Not yet, at least. Not until I convince you otherwise.'

She reached across the table to grab his hands where he had placed them. He jerked them back, and saw a slump in her shoulders he could only interpret as disappointment.

They sat in silence for several long minutes, Tristan scowling at a faceless figure. Finally, he held out his hand, palm upwards. A delicately folded piece of parchment, smelling strongly of peach blossoms drifted into it. Levitated, as if she suddenly found the thought of their contact repulsive. A pang of something cold and bitter shot through him.

'You know the drill,' she purred.

In silence, Tristan slid his chair backwards and stormed from the room, gone even before the sound of wood grating on tile had stopped echoing about the empty space.

Whatever had come to pass at Tristan's meeting, he did not divulge to the others the following day, or any of the days in the week afterwards. All he told them was that they _had_ to find the Book before he opened the next clue. He'd been in a weird mood throughout those days, flitting between snappish and surly, and zealously diving into the task at hand. It was the first James saw of the erosion of his Valiant Quest façade, and it was more than a little concerning.

But it gave the boys something to do to pass the time. The weather was rarely good enough for any but the clinically insane to practice Quidditch, and there were scant few people from their own year left in the castle. So instead, the boys put all of their effort and free time into scouring the castle for the Book.

They tried everything that they could think of; first searching all the most obvious places, including an entire day turning the library inside out. Then they moved on to a methodical approach, starting from the top and working their way down to the dungeons – though not so deep as to encounter the infamous Lowest Level. They dredged up every skerrick of knowledge from their first year and F.A.R.T club experiences learning secret pathways through the castle from older students. They even discovered a few new ones of their own, which grew stranger and in more obscure places as their searches pushed on later and later into the night, eventually striking out after curfew beneath the cover of the Cloak.

They found a room that changed size depending on how many times one turned the handle when opening the door, they found a portrait that perfectly mirrored the castle wall behind it that they found they were able to step _into_ which led to a small, cramped room barely large enough for the three of them. They had a terrifying experience with one room near the top of the Astronomy tower that had _invisible_ walls and a floor, and they all screamed in abject terror for a few moments after tumbling through, thinking they were about to hurtle to their collective demise.

They made sure to stop and look where they were going a little more, after that.

Not even an entire night in the Eighth Floor turned up any joy. They merely managed to open what seemed to be the same door six different times, and when Fred saw a suspicious shadow that was rippling a little too similarly to a Lethifold, they all bolted, finally coming bursting back out into the castle proper way down in the Basement next to the Hufflepuff common room.

When they had a three a.m. run-in with a Ravenclaw-Slytherin couple in a Potions store cupboard the following night which involved a lot of frightened yelling and more bare backside than James ever cared to see, they decided to give the late-night missions a rest for a little while.

However, nothing epitomised their hunt quite so well as the morning two days before Christmas. It was the first day of the holidays that hadn't borne frightful weather, and so the boys were making the most of combing every inch of the grounds and outhouses. They had followed an older Ravenclaw student down to the Quidditch pitch, as Tristan had sworn he had seen the bloke tuck _the_ book under his arm at the breakfast table. They lurked in a corner behind a laundry basket brimming with sweaty socks and undergarments for a half hour while the student slowly changed and took up his broom to go flying. When they finally managed to comb through his things they found the title in question: _Twelve Failsafe Methods to Stop Wasting your Time – Get out there and be Productive!_

Tristan tossed the stupid book against the wall, and half of the Ravenclaw's robes along with it, for good measure.

'Picking up where Brooks left off, Potter? I hadn't picked you for a snooper.'

James was the slowest to turn and face the voice. By the time he had done so, his two supposed _best friends_ had melted away into thin air as quickly as if they'd Disapparated.

'We thought he- we were looking for–'

'Trouble, is what you were looking for. As if we need another reason to kick you off the team.'

Suddenly nervous, James scurried about collecting the strewn clothes and discarded tome.

'I'd have thought you'd be using this time to practice. Merlin knows, you looked like you needed it.'

James kicked himself; that was _exactly_ what he should have been doing, instead of getting caught up in this pointless crusade for the book.

'I was… going to?' it came out much more of a question than he would have liked.

Odette studied him doubtfully. James' dirty jeans and Gryffindor jumper with a rip in one sleeve were hardly approved Quidditch practice attire.

Although Odette, bedecked from head-to-toe in bright green, complete with her trademark glittering heels, was hardly one to judge. Not that it would stop her.

'Well, it's your lucky day. Grab your broom. Unofficial practice starts now.'

James looked around uncertainly for his friends. Both had made themselves conveniently scarce. With a defeated sigh and in the shadow of a mountain of trepidation, he did as instructed.

It was the best weather that they'd had since the holidays began, though that wasn't saying much. A stiff north-westerly howled up the valley, scooping up handfuls of froth from the surface of the black lake, and buffeting the snow-frosted trees of the Forbidden Forest. A Hogwarts banner had blown loose from its fastening, and flapped violently, held down by only three corners. It slapped uselessly against the side of one of the stands, as if trying to knock the wood down by itself.

The cold cut through James' flimsy, holey jumper, sliding its searching fingers into every crack and crevice unapologetically. It tousled his hair constantly, which was _just_ long enough to get in his eyes and be a nuisance. Odette had to shout to be heard. She gestured for them to fly a few practice laps to warm up. The Ravenclaw student from earlier was nowhere to be seen.

James was content to tuck in behind Odette as they weaved in and out between the stadiums, at times coming so close that he could drag his fingers atop the nearest seats.

Odette made the dangerous flying look decidedly easy, even despite the constant wind. Her hair, tied in a tight ponytail, streamed behind her as she flew, a streak of silver-blonde against green. Her comfort on her lightning-fast Siberian Arrow broom was a joy for James to watch, as she ducked and weaved between gaps in the woodwork he would have deemed impassable. It was no accident that this girl before him was deemed a generational talent, as she was displaying to him now.

Just a pity, he mused, that she had the attitude to go with it.

'Can that old Comet keep up, Potter, or shall I fly blindfolded so I'll be at your level?' she laughed derisively. Her words were teased and buffeted by the wind between them.

They spent a half hour just flying laps around the pitch, each time pushing one another to make more daring moves, take a more breathtaking line through this corner, or under that archway. Odette's melodious laughter would often drift back to James, each time she made a particularly daring move. It was rich and genuine and innocent, none of the things that Odette personified. It was addictive, and James found himself joining in.

Next, they spent an hour running drills from their regular training sessions, and then a few more laps. And then another half hour just aimlessly tossing a Quaffle to one another, and then a few more laps. Soon, James realised that the sun was well past its peak, and that he had spent the better part of the day out on the pitch. His face and lips stung from the wind, and his eyes were watering non-stop. His arms were a little shaky, and his backside was aching something fierce, but when Odette picked out a spot for them to rest, perched atop the roof of one of the stands, he found himself smiling.

'You'd be a passable flier without that relic of a broom, Potter.' Odette was busying herself fastening her own broom to the guttering so that an errant gust couldn't knock it free. Now _that_ would start some rumours if the pair of them were found up here, together…

All of a sudden, James was at a loss for things to say. It was a lot easier when there was a dozen feet of air between them, and he had something to do with his hands. Merlin, what should he do with his hands? He tried to place them harmlessly on the tiles at his side, but brushed up against Odette's fingers. He yanked them away quickly and folded them in his lap. A sidelong glance at Odette showed her wearing a knowing smile. She hadn't shied away from the contact in the slightest.

'I like this spot for thinking,' she said. Won't run into anyone up here. The view's not so bad, either.' James watched for a moment as she set her hair free from the ponytail, giving a contented sigh as she did so. Suddenly, he realised that wasn't the view he was meant to be enjoying.

The castle grounds from such a height were all unfolded before him. Every curve and roll of the gentle hills, the bristling forest, capped with glistening snow. Hagrid's Hut, squatting short and stolid at its border, as if that one building alone guarded from the darkness of what lay within. The giant Beauxbatons Abraxans grazed idly nearby, dwarfing the hut with their improbable scale.

The recent snows had left a bleached blanket atop all of it, which sparkled and winked in the pale sunlight, at times so bright that James had to blink. The castle itself bore a thick dusting like a giant, icy blanket, the only sense of warmth garnered from the pinpricks of orange glow shining out from active windows.

For the next few months, at least, it was the closest James would get to being home.

'It's not so bad,' James agreed, though whether he was talking about the view or the castle, even he wasn't certain.

They lapsed into silence for a while. Odette had her legs dangling over the edge of the roofing, hanging casually above the dizzying height below. James shuffled up to join her, without trying to look down. It was one thing to be this high astride a broom, but perched here on the edge of a flimsy roof, over fifty feet up somehow was far more nauseating. Between that and the squeamish, uncertain feeling Odette engendered from him, his stomach was in a constant state of backflip.

When the silence stretched past comfortable and threatened to venture into awkwardness, James blurted out something that had been on his mind a while.

'I voted for Ava,' he told the left-hand goal hoops. 'For Captain.'

He wasn't looking at Odette, but could hear the smile in her voice. 'I know. Good thing you did; I'd have kicked you off the team after that first match.'

James snapped around to look at her, hurt. She offered a casual shrug in response.

'I'd have regretted it instantly, but a girl has to have standards.'

'I see…?'

'I really want this James. I'll never get to compete in a Tri-Wizard. For as long as I am at school, this is as close as I'll get. Quidditch is all I have, really. I'm no good at all that classroom stuff. Did you know Professor Plye gave me a "T" on my latest Transfiguration essay? If I want to make a career out of this, I need to show people that I'm the best.'

'I understand.'

'And right now, you are one of the biggest things in my way of doing that.'

James knew it had been coming. He knew that it was the truth, but to hear Odette stay it still stung more than he cared to admit.

'You need to get back on the Hippogriff. You need to bounce back, but most of all, you need to realise that this time _, it's not all about you_. I'm sure that one day soon there will be stadiums chanting your name, and you'll be able to have it all your way, and choose whomever you want for your team, but right now, you need to realise that this is about more than your ego, James. We're all invested in this team. And that's what we are, like it or not, we're a _team._ It's about time you acted like it.'

James nodded, he knew it would be useless arguing with Odette. He knew he needed to find a way to settle things with Lynch, and as he looked down at the stadium around which the pair of them had just flown so recklessly, the beginnings of an idea began to form in his mind.

'I will,' he said, and picked up his broom to leave. There had been a moment there where Odette had dropped almost every layer that she wore wrapped around her true personality, where she had actually shown him something of her real self. The childish laughter, the earnestness of her plea, and the honesty to tell him that Quidditch was all she had. It was intoxicating, the thought of drawing that same person out again, the challenge of seeing through to the real girl, but their most recent talk had drawn those layers back down again, and he knew that their time together was over. For now, at least.

James' Christmas morning at Hogwarts was soured a little from the start. He woke up to see a pile of presents at the foot of his bed, but none were from his parents, not even a card. He put on a show of it not bothering him, and still laughed when he opened Fred's gift which somehow managed to paint his entire bed bright pink, but his heart wasn't really in the mid-morning snowball fight, and he ended up accidentally sending a charmed rock through the window of Greenhouse Three. The morning became decidedly less comfortable when, as they were traipsing in through the Entrance Hall looking for a cup of hot chocolate, Galatea Renshaw was standing right in their path.

Impeccably dressed, as ever, she wore a fur-lined black cloak with a high, stiff collar. Her raven hair was pulled back in a severe bun. The scar below her eye she had earned whilst saving them last year caught the sunlight.

'Erm, Merry Christmas, headmistress?' Tristan asked. James nodded his agreement.

'Your highness,' Fred bowed.

Renshaw didn't quite smile, but James definitely saw a hint of a twinkle in her eyes.

'Merry Christmas troublemakers. Have you seen the swath of mud and water you've just dragged in here? I'd have thought somebody had let a mad Erumpent in through the front door.'

James turned to survey the damage. That hardly seemed like a fair call. A mid-sized Hippogriff, perhaps…

Eager to please, Tristan turned around and jabbed his wand at the mess. ' _Scourgi –_ hic! – _fy!'_

The trail of mud promptly became fiercely ablaze.

'Potter, I need to borrow you. As for you two, sort this out without destroying more than one wing of the castle, could you?'

James turned and left a very sheepish looking Tristan and Fred in his wake.

He fell in step with Renshaw, and it soon became apparent that they were heading for her office. Was he in trouble? He'd mostly fixed the window he broke. It hardly seemed a Headmistress'-office-scale offense.

'How have you been, this year, James?' Renshaw finally asked. 'It is remiss of me that we have not spoken until now.'

Had she somehow heard his complaint from earlier? She spoke to the very thing he had voiced to his friends. In what he had thought was privacy. 'Well enough. Recovering. Rain looks, er, healthier these days.'

'Healthier indeed. What with no powerful magical entity attempting to drain her life force for a change. I hear it does wonders for the complexion. Do you speak with her often?'

'Not so much this year. She keeps to herself a lot.'

'Interesting. Do you find it odd that an orphan girl with supposedly no home to go to should choose to risk the streets in their current state? It is hard to gauge the situation from the shelter of Hogwarts' walls, but the numbers of Infected are on the rise, Mister Potter. The streets of London are no longer as safe as they once were.'

James hadn't even thought of it until Renshaw brought it up.

'She is an interesting girl, of that there is no doubt. I should be most interested if she is found to be getting up to any other such… interesting activities throughout the year. Do you understand, Mister Potter?'

James looked up at Renshaw. She gave him a warm, reassuring smile. He nodded back.

At the door to her office, curiously, she ushered James in alone. James let the heavy doors swing shut behind him. He was struck again by the stark, almost militaristic design style favoured by Renshaw. Nothing existed here that wasn't expressly needed and had a use perfectly explainable and mapped out. Except that this time, there was a small pile of rubbish near the door as he entered. Atop it sat a photo frame stamped with golden cursive lettering all around the border. Something about it was tickling his suspicion, but before he could take a step towards it, he was interrupted by the presence of four others in the room with him.

'James!' cried Ginny Potter excitedly. 'Come give your mother a hug.'

'Mum! Dad!' James sprinted across the room to join the rest of his family, his mood instantly soaring and a rush of warmth and gratitude surged towards Renshaw.

His father wore a few more grey hairs than James remembered, and his mother had a couple of extra wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but they seemed otherwise in great spirits. They spent the day strolling the castle together with Al and Lily, reunited finally once more. Al took them to the dungeon where his perfect Forgetfulness Potion was placed on the highest shelf for the class to use as an example of the rich colouration. Lily showed them a disused path she had discovered that led from the dungeons down to the boat house where she had decorated her own little secret garden to hold meetings. James walked them around the Quidditch pitch, and showed them his very own locker for the Hogwarts team, before sheepishly recounting their latest bitter defeat.

Both parents promised to attend his next match, and said they had something waiting back in his bedroom that might just help him perform a bit better next time. They also hinted that a bigger surprise was on the horizon, a combined Christmas present for the three of them, but they refused to say just what.

Harry and Ginny traded back stories about what they had been doing. Ginny and Aunt Hermione had been running their pre-Hogwarts day-care and tutelage for young witches and wizards, and both she and Harry agreed that it was slowly driving them all mental. Harry had been travelling a lot for work, mostly around the countryside to inspect this misdemeanour or that, at the behest of his mysterious new boss.

Neither of them had heard from Teddy.

They proceeded to eat too much for lunch, and then all fell asleep on the floor of the Gryffindor common room next to the fire, disturbed just the once by a group of tittering sixth-year girls who asked Harry to sign a string of increasingly inappropriate clothing items, until Ginny sidled up and cleared her throat very pointedly.

All told, it was the best day of James' holidays by far.

His good mood carried him all through the following week, despite their lack of success in the relentless hunt for the book, and despite an annoying tendency Odette seemed to be displaying to leave a room any time he entered.

He was sat at the breakfast table with Fred and Tristan, discussing whether they brave the weather and search down in the boat house, or go back to the library for the umpteenth time and riffle through the dustiest shelves, when Professors Meadows and Longbottom entered the Great Hall, their heads together in whispered conversation.

'Blood everywhere…' Professor Meadows was saying. James couldn't see her wooden leg beneath her jeans and boots, but the wince on her face told him she was hurting trying to keep up with Professor Longbottom's cracking pace.

'Surprised it was just the one. D'you think the others drove it off? Killed it maybe?'

'Who knows? Whatever _it_ even is.'

James shared a significant look with the others, but they didn't need to wait long to find out what had happened. After the pair shared a short conversation with the Headmistress, the latter stood up to speak.

'Students will not be permitted out-of-doors today, the castle will be locked and sealed. Please head immediately to your house common rooms, where your heads of house will give further instruction.'

His heart beginning to quicken, James slowly pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt odd and shaky. He waved farewell to an ashen-faced Tristan. Someone was sobbing across the room. Professor Longbottom passed them on his way out.

'Professor!' James called. 'What's happened?'

Professor Longbottom gestured for them to walk and talk, and then set out at his rapid pace again. James had to jog to keep up.

'Last night, something came out of the Forest and killed one of the Beauxbatons Abraxan horses. Hagrid's missing. He's taken Sirius and his crossbow, but no-one has seen him since yesterday. A few of us are preparing to head in there.'

James and Fred stopped dead in their tracks. Professor Longbottom powered on, too focused on preparing for the task at hand. They rushed to the window, but a walled tent had been erected around the Abraxan enclosure. A trail of churned mud and bloody snow several metres wide led off into the darkness of the Forest.


	16. Keen Instincts & Keening Hearts

There was a surreal feel to the following day, when the rest of the students arrived back at school. James' head was a little fuzzy, having stayed up most of the night speculating on what had happened down near the edge of the Forest. The enforced lockdown gave himself and Fred ample time to generate wild conjecture.

He'd rushed to the Owlery the moment the curfew was lifted to write his father. Although, he _was_ Harry Potter, so he likely already knew. James was of half a mind to sneak out under the cover of the Cloak and do some investigating of his own. Professor Longbottom, however, seemed to have an uncanny ability to read James' mind, and was currently stuck to him like Spellotape. It was almost like he'd been in this situation before.

So it was with a distracted mind that James greeted his friends as they arrived from Hogsmeade. A thunderous burst of rainfall had struck the moment that many of them were making their way up the front steps of the castle, and the resulting melee took a good fifteen minutes to clear.

Clip had been halfway around the world to try something ludicrous that Muggles called "surfing", where he strapped himself onto a board and bobbed about on giant waves. James wondered how anyone could possibly find that anything other than terrifying. Cat had spent the holidays in the snows of her half-native Scandinavia, and brought back a bag of weirdly pulsing, crawling and glowing things James was just certain she was going to try and sneak into their next meal.

They had to go and visit poor, tiny Cassie in the hospital wing, after she had been crushed in the scrum to get in the castle. She had her leg bandaged top to bottom, yet again.

'James! James I went to a club called "Arithmantic Semantics" and it was the _best- thing- ever!_ We did Arithmancy and numbers and calculations and- and-' here she reached forward to yank James forward, so she was whispering into his ear like she was on her death bed. 'They let me bind all the text books. _All_ of them, James. It was heaven.'

She shuddered in a way that made James a little uncomfortable, considering his proximity.

'She, erm, she on any medications?' Tristan called out to Madam Petheridge.

'A few potions for the pain. Her little body may not handle the side-effects quite so well.'

'Nobody approach her with a binder,' Tristan grinned. 'Unless, well, let me close these curtains first.'

Madam Petheridge wisely chose that point to usher them from the room, Poor Cassie left alone to bemoan her lack of stationery.

James found Rain as they were gathering to welcome back the Durmstrang students. They were scattered around the edge of the Lake, watching a tiny, canvas-covered dinghy paddle towards them from the main ship. It couldn't have held more than a half-dozen students. It was shaping up to be a long afternoon.

'Merry Christmas, James Potter.'

Rain was swaddled head to toe against the cold, including a thick scarf bunched under her chin, but despite the added layers, she looked thinner than she had all year. Her skin was a dark honeyed brown, as if she had been sunbathing throughout the heart of winter.

'Good holidays, Rain?' Renshaw's words were still ringing in James' ears.

'Wondrous,' she crooned. Despite looking like she hadn't eaten since she was last at Hogwarts, her eyes shone brighter than ever. James grabbed hold of a nearby Ravenclaw's robe to steady himself.

They watched in amusement as the entire Durmstrang student body folded themselves out of the tiny boat, one after the other, until they were all arrayed in a neat line along the shore.

'Hang on a minute,' James muttered.

The beginnings of applause sounded behind him, and the Hogwarts students turned as one to see an array of black-and-grey clad Durmstrang students – those Pot-Head had labelled as _Tishna_ standing as if they had been there all day.

The Hogwarts students joined in the cheer with enthusiasm.

Beauxbatons, by comparison, arrived with somewhat less dramatic flair. They Flooed into the massive fireplaces of the Great Hall that same evening, leaving it to the last minute before dinner, making their arrival seem almost begrudging in its tardiness.

They stepped out arm-in-arm, in twos and threes, and did not mingle. James saw a few students in black or grey try and greet friends or acquaintances from the previous term. Most all were turned away with a haughty glare and derisive sniff.

The Beauxbatons head teacher strode out of the fireplace, already in a huff, pointed once at Renshaw, and then once through the nearest side-door leading out of the Hall. James, for once out of the watchful eye of Professor Longbottom, threw the Cloak over himself and hurried along, smelling conspiracy brewing.

'First of all, let me offer my most sincere apologies,' Renshaw was saying, as James slipped through the cracked door. They were in a dim, low-ceilinged room with bare, glass-fronted cabinets lining the wall. He had to tread lightly so his footsteps didn't echo on the unadorned flagstones.

'To hell with that!' roared the head of the Blues. 'You think we'll let this stand? The whole country is up in arms about it! And on the eve of your pathetic match-fixing claim being denied by the Wizengamot? Don't you _dare_ think that the timing went unnoticed.'

'I assure you, nobody is more upset about this accident than myself-'

'Don't lie to me, you two-faced Hag. We'll have you for this. Call back your pet giant. Everyone knows his _search_ is a ploy. We'll have your job! We'll have you back out on the streets where you belong.'

'I have the full support of the Minister in this. You'll find it no easy task to dethrone me. This is, after all, _my_ castle.'

The pair had been standing a few feet apart up until now. Renshaw's unflappable calm up against the tumultuous gesturing and spittle-flinging rant of her Beauxbatons counterpart. But he strode over to her now, until they were face to face. Renshaw quirked an eyebrow in response.

'You think you have the Minister in your pocket. Perhaps, for now. They have short memories over here it seems. But I remember America. We all do. Those of us who were there, on both sides. We know the _real_ Galatea Renshaw, or, should I call you-'

'Enough!' Renshaw's shout caused James to flinch. The resulting scuff of his feet drew both teachers' eyes to his position. His heart skipped several beats and he tried his best to not so much as breathe.

'This meeting is over. And if you know what's good for you, you'll forget you ever had the gall to mention America under my roof. _Mine._ ' Renshaw's eyes were livid. Her implacable, bluff façade of commanding calm was gone, a few strands of silvery hair had broken free at her temples, and a vein pulsed in her neck. For perhaps the first time in their shared history, James saw Headmistress Renshaw shaken.

Out in the Great Hall, the teachers were attempting to levitate the house tables back to their usual position in time for dinner. Unfortunately, this entailed shifting nigh on a thousand students who wanted to remain in the Great Hall, as dinner was approaching. James saw Professor Longbottom pick a first year up bodily and place him on the safe side of the Slytherin table as it lumbered across the pavers on animated legs.

Cassie had been allowed to re-join them for the meal. She harboured only the slightest limp, and a curious affinity to sniffing the newly-bound sheafs of parchment in her new Arithmancy textbook that she had floating around her, able to read and eat simultaneously.

'Shove off, loser. This seat's for Gryffindors only.' Lynch sneered, plucking the book from in front of Cassie and tossing it carelessly onto the tiles. Poor Cassie whimpered as if Lynch had just punted her favourite kitten. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

Before he knew it, James was on his feet. Fred, Tristan and Clip appeared at his side, sleeves rolled to elbows. He had had enough.

'I've got this,' he growled, gesturing them to stay put. While Clip returned Cassie's book, James told the others his plan.

'You're barking,' Fred gasped. 'And from me, that's saying something.' For once, he was speechless.

'Don't do it, mate,' Tristan cautioned. 'It's not worth it.'

James rolled his shoulders to loosen tightening muscles, and to shake free the creeping fingers of doubt wending their way up his spine. He strode purposefully over to where Lynch was scowling back, now surrounded by his own crew of cronies.

There was something about the act of confrontation that permeated the air around it as it developed. It filled the air with an almost electric charge, as a dozen breaths were held together. That pause seemed something that the students were innately attuned to, and the crowds around them began to part, before they even knew the reason for the commotion.

As James squared off against Lynch, a slow murmur of speculation began to build. A hundred tiny glints of firelight reflected in wide-eyed stares were turned their way.

Preston looked a little confused at James' bold, unarmed approach. His own wand was clutched tightly in his fist. James liked to think it was panic that made his grip shake.

James didn't waver until he was face to face with Lynch. He could see the tiny pinpricks of sweat beading on his brow, the blood vessels in the whites of his eyes. Eyes that kept darting to the periphery to ensure his backup remained.

James smiled a long, drawn-out smile.

'You and I are going to settle this for good, Lynch.'

Two of Lynch's minions tried to muscle in and force James to take a step backwards. He didn't yield an inch.

Over Lynch's shoulder, James spied Pot-Head. He was rocketing off hand signals left and right, gesturing to a growing number of his notorious Greyfaces. They locked eyes, and James gave a single shake of the head. This one would be on him, and him alone.

'Saturday night at eight. You and me, the Quidditch Pitch. Bring your broom. Loser is off the team, for good.'

James held out his hand, not once breaking eye contact with Lynch.

'A _race?_ On your old fossil? You may as well hang up your broomstick now, Potter.'

Lynch scoffed and slapped James' hand aside. 'You're on. But my rule: winner takes the loser's broom. Think I'll use your old twig for kindling.' He stalked away chuckling to himself, and James caught Fred peppering his back with a barrage of rude gestures.

The showdown with Lynch was meant to have been a secret. So naturally, by lunchtime the following day, he was receiving well-wishes and support from students across all four houses. One of the Hufflepuff house team chasers even offered to lend James his broom.

'Should have taken it,' Fred sighed wistfully. 'Better than that old Comet of yours.'

'Don't need it, mate,' James smiled confidently.

Fred held a hand to James' forehead. 'You, er… you sure you're feeling alright?'

'Never better. Who knew this many people thought Lynch was a git as well?'

The hype continued to build, and with it – like a bad smell following an Infected – came the Galleons. It was the main reason James had been keeping his plans under wraps. A visit from the Lenders was a wildcard even he couldn't account for.

 _The line is even. You're on your own._

The note fluttered free from James' Transfiguration textbook as he sat down to class. He looked around, but knew there was nothing to see. It was chilling, how little was truly out of reach from a wizard of the opinion that nothing was sacred.

Regardless, he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders as the note combusted in his hands, upon his reading it.

However much James did enjoy the support, he was relieved when Thursday rolled around and the student body had something else to occupy its collective mind.

'Welcome to the inaugural Junior Triwizard Tournament Duelling Competition!'

Several hundred students erupted in applause. Fred let off a shower of golden sparks from his wand and an ear-splitting whistle from his lips.

Zoe Meadows stood upon a raised dais that ran along the length of the Great Hall. All of the tables were gone. Seating had been replaced by grandstand-style benches that climbed up the walls, so high that the uppermost students appeared to have their heads stuck in the late-evening cloud of the enchanted ceiling. James' seat was right at floating-candle-level. Fred had already pocketed three with a sly wink.

As the applause tapered off, Zoe Meadows' magically-enhanced voice took over. It was vibrant and energetic and full of life, bubbling with excitement and injecting an enthusiasm and anticipation into the affair that was highly contagious. James felt himself grinning just watching her. Zoe Meadows didn't know the meaning of the words "middle ground".

'I'm so excited to finally get this underway! I've already seen what some of you are capable of, and I think this is going to be one of the best tournaments Hogwarts has seen in a long time!

'Hopefully by now you all know the proceedings. We'll have three meetings like this from now until the end of the year, with the champion being crowned as the final event of the tournament! At each meeting, everyone will participate in a maximum of three duels. Win, and you advance to the next round, lose and you're out. There are no second chances in a real duel!

'Ten rooms have been set up, similar to this one across the ground floor of the castle. The piece of parchment you were given upon entry will show your name, your opponent for the first duel, and the location.

'Standard school and international tournament rules apply, which you should all be familiar with. Victory by submission, or by possession of the opponent's wand _only._ Anything lethal will be met with expulsion, and possibly more. Respect your opponents, be humble in victory and gracious in defeat. And above all, have some fun. Now, without any further ado, let's go duel!'

Zoe's yell was lost in the uproar from the gathered students, who set about releasing their collective nervous energy together. James frantically checked his scrap of parchment, waiting for his first match to be allocated.

'I've got Alannis McClellan!' Fred called, staring at his page with glee. 'Time to go and get some revenge for Clip.'

'I've got someone called Constance… _something,'_ Tristan frowned at his own, turning the parchment left and right.

'Michaud?' James asked. 'She's that annoying Blue from Herbology. And Defence. And like every class she's in. You'd better not lose that.'

James was up against someone called Davor Grahn, from Durmstrang. Whoever that was. He chuckled to himself, this might be a crafty way to figure out Pot-Head's real name without actually asking.

Tristan's duel was to be before James and Fred's, so the three of them forced their way through hundreds of confused and milling students to the repurposed classroom that was to be his stage. The moment they entered through the door, James was assaulted by a familiar squeal, and then enveloping darkness.

'Mmrph- hi Dom.'

James had feared Dominique Weasley's all-encompassing hugs through the entirety of first year, as his smaller stature had left him in very real danger of being suffocated somewhere deep in her generous cleavage. Now taller, James was faced with the dire task of scrunching his eyes shut so as to avoid staring right down the front of his cousin's robes.

Mercifully, the penance was short, before she moved on to Fred.

'You got to be careful, Dom,' James warned her. 'We're building up for a duel, you can't go scaring us like that. I nearly got my wand out and let off a shot early.'

'And with a face like that, I wouldn't blame you in the slightest,' Tristan quipped, sliding to the front of the group. 'Tristan Macmillan. Long-time friend of your dear cousins. In fact, I've heard them say on multiple occasions that I am, in fact, really a part of the family.'

'Oh, come on then.'

Tristan caught James' eye mid-hug. He looked as if he'd won the Tournament already.

'I'm supervising,' Dom explained, once Tristan had wiped the drool off of his chin. 'The prefects are helping out, one in each room. I'm so excited, it's like F.A.R.T club all over again. Don't you just _love_ organising things?'

The three boys shared an uncertain look. James struggled to organise his socks into pairs a good amount of the time.

When his name was called, Tristan stiffened, and drew his wand to look over it for the umpteenth time. James clasped his shoulder encouragingly, Dom blew him a kiss that made his knees wobble, and he made the slow march up the steps, all of a sudden very alone.

The duelling platform was made of polished wood, slotted seamlessly together, its glow muted by a thin film of greasy dust. School banners with garish tassels marched up and down either side, fluttering in a faux-magical breeze. Their edges overlapped and intertwined with one another. The tassels snagged as if holding hands with their neighbours. It was by far the most amicable inter-school sentiment present in the room.

Tristan's opponent at the far end of the platform was ensnared in a gaggle of Beauxbatons hangers-on, whispering and gesturing like they were at the heart of some great conspiracy. No fewer than three of them were attending to Constance Michaud's long mane of silvery-blonde hair. James and Fred shared a roll of the eyes that would have made Cassie proud.

'Competitors,' Dom stated, once the two were finally set. Tristan bowed deeply, with a tone of almost mocking subservience. Michaud inclined her neck barely an inch.

As soon as Dom had finished uttering the phrase 'Begin!' Michaud was already moving. She let of an array of silvery spells that shot towards Tristan in a fan. Tristan slashed at the nearest one, dissipating it easily, but instead of fizzling against the magical barriers erected around the platform, the remaining spells rebounded, jumping back to zap Tristan square on the backside.

James and Fred shared a loud guffaw.

Tristan rubbed the spot gingerly, but the spells had no overt affect, and so he set to work preparing his counter.

Tristan loved fire. It was an almost unhealthy obsession. He was always the one to provide the light for their meetings, always the one to suggest it was a little cold, or the one searching for some fuel to burn. James had been concerned, as he couldn't exactly win these duels by conjuring a wall of flames against his opponent – that was well and truly in the category of lethal force – but what Tristan _could_ do, and the creativity he showed, was a marvel to watch.

Like everything at Hogwarts that wasn't serviced on a regular basis, the duelling platform that the pair were utilising was covered in a thin layer of dust. With a quick cry of _'Ventus!'_ Tristan kicked up a cloud of it around Constance, and followed up by an _'Incendio!'_ the dust came to life in a thousand tiny sparks, burning and popping all around Constance's head, as if someone had let off a Weasleys Wildfire Whizbang right next to her ear. Tristan capitalised on the momentary confusion with a searing _'Lumos Solem!'_ which shot a jet of light brilliant enough to make even the spectators shrink backwards. Poor Constance Michaud received the spell head-on, and was left blinking stupidly, one hand extended in a pitiable attempt to protect herself. Tristan shattered her feeble shield charm with an Impediment Jinx, leaving her frozen mid-cower just long enough for him to stride over and pluck the wand from her hands. He underlined his performance with a bow to the crowd before Michaud overcame the effects of the Jinx, and stumbled to one knee, defeated inside of a single minute.

James and Fred were loudest in their applause.

The first duel on James' sheet of parchment was in a different room. He made the trip alone. The crowds he pushed through were abuzz, either with excitement or despair. Students shot sidelong glances aplenty, surreptitiously sizing one another up. The way the tournament was arranged, _anyone_ could be the next opponent.

The classroom that bore James' stage could have been identical to that which he just left. He knew it as a fourth-year Charms class. It bore no mark of that former life now. The familiar long dais ran the length of the room. A few splinters marred its polished surface, embers still glowing from the force of a powerful spell. This room was much emptier than the last. The inhabitants lined the walls in little clusters, whispering together in tight groups that refused to mingle.

It wasn't long before James was ushered onto the stage by a Hufflepuff prefect he didn't recognise. The crowd around them was hushed. The prefect was outlining the rules, but James' focus was internal. He blocked out the distractions. His opponent, Davor Grahn, was of the Durmstrang affiliation Pot-Head named _Strannik_ – one of the long, rangy ones, and thankfully not one of the brooding, stabby ones of _Tishna_.

Grahn was all smiles, and flashed James a confident wink as their duel began. A single yell went up from one of the Greyfaces, then the magical barrier shot upwards, and the sound without was muffled.

James immediately shot a leg-locker at Grahn's feet just to get him moving, and then an _Incarcerous_ to send a tangle of ropes in his direction, hungry to snare any loose limb. Grahn sidestepped the leg-locker and cut through the ropes easily, countering with a guttural growl that sent three identical jets of red light in James' direction. He slashed at the nearest with a firm _Imminuum,_ and sidestepped through the other two. A deep reverberation sounded where they collided with the barrier.

The pair made eye contact in the momentary lull that followed. James' chest heaved, despite minimal exertion. Grahn's smile remained in place. His eyes betrayed his next move as he launched into another round of attacks. James had a half-second to prepare.

The pair were evenly matched for strength. Neither could brute-force their way through the shields of the other, as Tristan had with Constance Michaud. They were both light on their feet, and possessed good instincts on which spells to duck and which needed to be blocked. The five minute mark bled by in what felt like a handful of seconds, and slowly, the crowd began to take note, drawn out from their navel-gazing and inward focus by the spectacle on offer.

When Grahn's wand suddenly became a long, glowing golden whip, James jabbed his wand towards the ground at their feet and barked _'Motus!'_ the platform shuddered violently, and the reaching fingers of the whip that had been sent to snare James' wand went high, leaving him with a kiss on the cheek that left blood like lipstick.

The gasp from the crowd barely registered. It was James' turn to smile now, as a flicker of consternation darted across Grahn's visage. That spell had the hallmarks of a specialty move. Grahn had been digging deep, hoping to finish the fight in style. The Quaffle was in James' possession, now.

The pair may have been even strength for strength, but James knew his upper hand lay in his experience. He had actually _fought_ before. He'd duelled, probably for his life, against wizards and _things_ that wanted him dead, or worse. This wasn't a scripted dance for him. It was the eighth floor, and the shores of the Black Lake all over again. It was doing anything it took to win.

And he'd just been given his opening.

A vicious _Defodio_ at the feet of Grahn made his opponent stumble on uneven footing. James abandoned the spell he had been about to cast and ruthlessly pushed his tiny advantage. He landed a rapid-fire Knockback Jinx as Grahn made to steady himself. The spell connected with his knee, and with a sickening " _pop!"_ the crowd watched as the joint was forced inwards, bending back unnaturally. Grahn went down in a heap, and James darted in to collect the discarded wand. The claxon sounded his victory.

The fugue of his battle focus took a moment to subside. Once it passed, James rushed to the side of his opponent. The Hufflepuff prefect was looking away pointedly and calling repeatedly for Madam Petheridge.

'I'm so sorry,' James began. 'I didn't mean-'

'Do not worry,' Grahn cut in. That smile was back again, this time as a grimace through the pain. 'It is a fool who enters a fight not expecting to be hurt. Well fought, James Potter.'

Grahn propped himself upright, his lower leg was bent and floppy in a way that made James' stomach uneasy. He held out his hand and James clasped it. In that moment of eye contact, something passed between them, each having been humbled by the other. The rivalry that had momentarily divided them moved aside, and respect filled the void.

'Well fought, Potter.' The appearance of a third voice made James start. He hadn't heard anyone crossing the platform. Pot-Head's face was grinning out from underneath what appeared to be a bedsheet painted to resemble the exact hue of the wooden platform. 'We'll take him from here. You're needed elsewhere, I believe.'

James thanked him and stood to leave. Before he could, however, Pot-Head reached out and grabbed hold of his arm.

'You must go to the Great Hall after your next duel. Watch what is on display.'

A little confused, James nodded. But his next duel was due to start, and he hadn't the time to dwell on Pot-Head's foibles.

His next opponent was a Ravenclaw third-year who made Cassie look like a professional duellist. James dispatched of him in under a minute, and joined Fred and Tristan in celebrating their own victories – they had all made it through to the next meeting.

Curiosity piqued, James led the others to the Great Hall to witness Pot-Head's mysterious spectacle. As they reached the Entrance Hall, they were walking against the flow of the crowd, and passage was slow. Snippets of conversation lingered, and their contents slowly painted the picture of what it appeared the group had just missed. Every voice that spoke was a little hushed, their tones all coloured with the same tone: incredulity.

'Did you see her dodge that Stunner?'

'I swear she did a backflip at one point-'

'She never stopped _moving-'_

'I reckon one of those spells passed right through her. Do you think she could be part ghost?'

'Well I dunno, Harrison. How about I stick my…'

Luckily, that one trailed off out of earshot before James had to Hex anyone.

James knew what would be awaiting them long before the crowds thinned away.

'Is she really even that good?' he asked as a nearby group of Slytherins broke out into a chorus of "Holly is our Queen."

Tristan's expression answered before his words. 'Mate, if you were there that night by the lake, you'd have proposed when she threw herself at you, instead of ditching her to chase after the crazy train.

'Good of you to make it, _James.'_

Holly Brooks possessed a unique ability to make his name seem like a swearword. Her slate-grey stare bored into his skull with a physical pressure. She stood with one hand on her hip, wand held loosely in her other. A faint flush of colour dusted her pale cheeks, speaking to exertion. A few strands of hair were plastered to her forehead, and her braid hung down across her chest. James felt a pang of something as he looked at her.

'There's a bit going on,' he gestured lamely to the now-empty room.

'I hear you challenged Preston Lynch to a race for your spot on the team.'

'News travels fast.'

'I'm a Slytherin. Apparently, it's all we're good for.' Her glare was accusatory, as if it had been James who had uttered those words. 'Anthony Greengrass said he was going to sneak out and Jinx your broomstick that night, by the way.'

'Right, erm… thanks. Guess I'll keep an eye out.'

'No need. I told him I'd make his insides his outsides if he so much as left the dormitory that night.'

James perked up a little. 'Oh, thanks Holly. Hey, I was wondering-'

'I've got to go, James.'

She brushed passed the three of them without another glance. A cluster of third- and fourth-year boys who had been waiting near the doorway wasted no time in propositioning her with at least a dozen offers of Hogsmeade or worse.

'Right in front of me,' James spat.

'Mate,' Fred's hand on his shoulder was a consoling presence. 'She's not yours anymore.'

'Choo, choo,' Tristan added sombrely.

With the first round of the duelling tournament in the books, the buzz around school returned once more to the showdown between James Potter and Preston Lynch. Ava Adams pleaded with the pair of them to snap out of it. Cassie told James she'd have no sympathy if he lost his place over something so _Gryffindor._ Cat simply held his head in her hands for a long moment and whispered, _'win.'_ Together, they were all about as helpful as Fred's constant nagging and overt dissuasion.

'C'mon mate, at least borrow my broom. You know that thing Lynch rides is lightning fast; he'll fly circles around you.'

'Not a chance, mate.' James patted the broomstick-shaped canvas bag slung over his shoulder. 'New case I got for Christmas from Mum and Dad.' He explained to Fred's quizzical look.

'You love that broomstick. Your Mum won a championship on it. If you lose it, she might kill you. Hell, mate. _I_ might kill you.'

'Just worry about security,' James assured him. 'Nobody gets in or out of the Pitch without your say-so. I don't want any Lenders ,or Anthony Greengrass copycats lurking about.'

Fred nodded sullenly, and peeled off to gather Tristan, Clip and a handful of others who had volunteered for security detail. Much to the chagrin of a large portion of the student body who had been hoping to watch.

James lingered at the steps to the Entrance Hall for a moment, watching the last rays of sunlight struggle to make themselves noticed above the distant mountaintops. The golden glow set the snow-capped peaks ablaze for a few precious moments. James fastened his robe against the chill to admire the scene a little longer.

'Beautiful, isn't it?'

Odette appeared at his side, her gaze lost in the distance. She was similarly bundled up against the cold, with a thick scarf and her oversized Slytherin team Quidditch jersey. Like she was planning on heading out into it.

She was standing close. Very close. She hardly seemed to notice as her shoulder brushed up against James' own, but he was achingly aware of the brief contact.

'Come to try and talk me out of it as well?' he asked with an air of bravado.

Odette looked offended. 'Of course not. I'd have thought you knew me better than that.'

'Oh.' For some reason that stung a little.

She turned to face him, and the curling tendrils of her breath in the chill crowded the space between them. It smelled of cinnamon and hot chocolate.

'Cold night,' she barely whispered.

'I've got gloves.'

'Not much of a breeze.'

'A little from the west, but it won't matter.'

'Moon won't offer much visibility tonight.'

James glanced at the tiny crescent, little more than a fingernail clipping, hanging low over the top of the Forest.

'A wise old woman once told me that we fly on instinct as much as sight.'

That brought forward a reluctant smile. One corner of her painted lips quirked upwards, but it was enough to set her pale eyes to glow. They outshone the sunset.

'It was a dangerous course when we flew it by daylight. In the darkness… Old Comets are notoriously stubborn on sharp turns.'

'I've got something worked out. Trust me.'

'You know what? I actually do. You went out and figured a way to fix this. You're doing what's best for the team, no matter the cost. It- it's very Gryffindor of you. I'll admit, I doubted you'd do it. I was shocked when I heard, but it was a pleasant surprise.'

She had turned to face him properly now. The last gasp of sunlight lit one side of her face, making her hair glow golden. The other half was cast in deep shadow.

Instinctively, James shifted until they were face to face. His broom lay forgotten at his feet, his heart hammered harder than it had from nerves all day. When she made a move to lift one hand, James found himself leaning forwards expectantly. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her lips. They parted, just the barest amount, and James could hear the breath that Odette drew in, and held.

'Ah, Mon Cheri, here you are!'

Loyal Clavet's voice left the moment scattered around James' feet like shards of a broken Butterbeer. He and Odette both flinched backwards, as if suddenly repulsed, and only now snapping out of an Imperius.

'Is the little man bothering you?' Loyal strode up and planted a kiss on Odette's cheek.

'I'd best be off,' James grated.

'Good idea, little man.'

'Potter!' Odette's voice was stilted. James didn't turn around for it. 'If you injure yourself I- I'll kill you!'

James wished he could gather the darkness around him like a cloak and use it to drown out the crooning conversations that followed him across the entire courtyard.

He brooded all the way down to the Quidditch Pitch. By the time he arrived, he had to use his wand to light the way.

The pitch was a different place by night, eerie and empty. Gone was the electric charge that permeated the air. It almost seemed foreign to him without the noise. An owl gave a single cry. The faintest shuffling and scraping announced Fred arranging the volunteer security detail around the perimeter.

James flicked his wrist, and the light of his _Lumos_ spell winked out. He needed his eyes to be as adjusted to the darkness as possible. The stands loomed menacingly above him, silhouetted against the spill of stars arcing across the clear sky. James felt he could hear the individual blades of grass bending beneath his feet as he paced the length of the pitch.

He had time before Lynch would arrive. Time left alone with only the shadows and his thoughts for company. The tangled web in his mind kept snatching and snaring at him as he tried to focus on the task at hand. Blue eyes and grey, black hair and blonde. A feeling that he was dancing on the edge of a knife, circling a solution but too afraid to make a leap, or perhaps too caught up in the exhilaration, potential and danger of this grey realm of indecisiveness in which he currently existed in limbo.

It was a relief when Lynch finally arrived. He was alone. Fred had been instructed to stay out of sight, and to let Lynch approach, oblivious to their presence.

'Potter,' Lynch snarled. He glanced at the bag at James' feet, clearly holding his broom. 'I'll enjoy breaking that. Might even do it right here in front of you after I win.'

James ignored the comment. A lump was forming in his throat now, and it was difficult to push words out past it.

Lynch's own broom was slung over his shoulder. Even in the dim light it gleamed, fresh from a polish. Not a single twig sat out of place. It was fast. The fastest in the school, if one believed Lynch's constant boasts.

'Looking forward to the extra space in the locker room once your big head isn't allowed in there,' James sneered back.

Lynch twitched, his right hand clearly itching to go for his wand. James' was already sitting loose and ready in his waistband, a half-second away from the draw. The moment hung, fragile, between them, before their bodies relaxed together, and they went back to trading glares in place of barbs.

'Three laps around the pitch. I've marked the course. One lap to practice, so you know where you're going. Start and finish is the centre hoop at the southern end. Only one of us can fit through it at a time. There won't be any draws tonight.'

Lynch eyed the hoop in question, gave a surly nod of acquiescence.

'From there, it's up to the top of the Hufflepuff stand. Where that banner has blown loose, through the gap in the woodwork and out the other side. Down beneath the pitch, through the timber framing, and up the _inside_ stairs of the Gryffindor tower.'

Lynch's eyes tightened momentarily, but he gave no other sign of alarm at the perilous route James was mapping out. Almost identical to the route that he and Odette had flown together over the holidays.

'Then head down to the entrance gate, and fly through the gap between the archway and the closed gate, slalom through the northern goal hoops, then a straight sprint across the length of the pitch through the central southern hoop. Repeat.'

Lynch was squinting back at the tiny slit between the gate and the archway. It was barely tall enough to pass through flat against the broomstick. At the apex of the sharp turn they were going to have to make, it would be nigh on impossible.

'You're not scared, are you?' James growled.

'Shove off, Potter. Let me see that old twig of yours one last time before I smash it.'

James grinned, bending down to open the canvas bag in which he carried his broom. The moon finally lifted itself free of the highest point of the Forest canopy, shining what meagre light it offered across the centre of the pitch. There, nestled in the protective folds of fabric, was a brand new Nimbus Model One broomstick, limited release. Only five hundred were ever made. _James'_ brand new broomstick, which he'd been given as a Christmas gift from his parents.'

'W-what's that?' Preston spluttered. 'That's not yours. You're cheating! I'm not going to race a cheater!'

'Thought you might say that,' James smirked, tossing the handwritten card signed by both of his parents. The world-renowned autograph of Harry James Potter was instantly recognisable as authentic. 'Guess Mum and Dad decided it was time for an upgrade.'

Lynch was fuming. He tossed the letter aside, his beady eyes bounced back and forward between the broom and James, as if unable to process the sudden turn of events.

'I hear they say it's easily as fast as that old branch you're so fond of,' James sneered, running his hands over the flawless handle. 'Guess we'll _really_ find out who's the better flier. That is, if you're not getting cold feet? I'm sure the whole school would love to hear how you backed down.'

'Shut it, Potter. This is only going to make it that much sweeter when your broom is mine.'

Lynch threw James one last, dirty look before mounting up and taking off. James gave him plenty of head start for the practice lap. He watched the shadowy figure rocket along up the pitch, toes nearly dragging on the grass.

James knew Lynch wouldn't back down. Too much pride was at stake. He'd be the laughingstock of the whole Gryffindor House. He'd forced Lynch into this, putting everything on the line in the hope for peace between them. As James rocketed off the ground at an alarming rate, he only hoped he'd made the right decision.

He used his practice lap more to get used to the broom than anything else. In order to keep its presence a secret, he'd had to stash it in his trunk, the moment it had arrived. This was the first time it was seeing fresh air. It was a completely different sensation to flying his old Comet. Where that had been a process of leaning into to corners, and bold movements, this new Nimbus answered to the tiniest of movements. James almost put himself into the wall three times merely from being oversensitive on the turn.

Hovering on the start line together, the pair were all scowls and surly silence. The faintest of breezes was whispering through the grass from the west. Their collective breath misted the air before them, intermingling and rising together, blissfully unaware of the chilly rivalry below.

Fred had given James a Whacker Cracker – a Weasley's-brand Firework that exploded upon impact. Lynch nodded once, and James dropped it. The moment the array of sparks blossomed beneath them, they were both gone. The rush of their speed was drowned out by the deep, gong-like sound that the firework emanated. It shattered any sense of peace or fragility that had remained, and announced the beginning of war. The race was on.

James' broom kicked beneath him. Air thundered through his ears, and snatched fiercely at his hair. His robes whipped and whistled, but all were merely distractions before the musical hum beneath his fingers. The broom felt so _alive._ He could feel its glee at finally being used, as he willed it as fast as he could up towards the towering Hufflepuff grandstand. The way when, as he lowered himself down to eke out every inch of speed, it seemed to react to his movements instinctively, made it feel more like an extension of his own will than any sort of tool. The vibrations all along the handle spiked in tenor as he edged in front of Lynch into the first turn. The broom _knew._

But as flawless as the broom was, James' mastery of it left a little to be desired. The gap in the torn banner was waving him on invitingly, the material rippling softy in the faint breeze. Riding his Comet was still so ingrained in his nature, that when he leaned heavily into the turn – as he would have needed to on his old mount – the Nimbus jerked hard to the right. Panicked, James overcorrected. A curse tore free from his lips as he only half-made the gap, the heavy folds of fabric wrapping themselves eagerly around his arms and face. Chaos – close air, instant blackness and death to all his momentum – before he was able to tear free. A sliver of golden trim remained caught in his collar, flapping mockingly as Lynch's back receded, down towards the bowels of the pitch.

James could do nothing but lean into the dive and follow. He was a good three seconds back, as Lynch disappeared into the complex riggings and timber framing that lined the lower levels of the pitch and grandstands.

Some hesitancy remained from his near-miss, and frustration grew as James found himself taking speed off too early, calmly dropping down into the darkness as if he were out for a leisurely Sunday fly.

Down here, it was all a matter of reaction times. Visibility was little more than a few metres ahead. How fast James was willing to push himself in this midnight labyrinth would make all the difference. A half second too slow down here wasn't a tangle with a banner, it was a painful crash, and certain defeat.

The cross-beams and rigging reached down haphazardly across James' path like drunken, clutching arms. With the only real light coming from a scattering of stars, his focus needed to be unassailable. He ducked under one beam, and was instantly barrel-rolling to make it through beneath another. A loose netting of ropes sought to drag him down, but for a last-minute adjustment which left their fingers grazing harmlessly against his back.

In here, where it truly was instinct that ruled, James' Nimbus was thriving. There were no heavy leans or great, lumbering turns, it was hairline triggers and a game of millimetres. He felt the excited hum begin to burgeon as Lynch's grunts and flapping cloak slowly became audible over the rushing air.

Bursting up into the relative light for a half-second, before into the interior of the Gryffindor stand. James could count the twigs in Lynch's broomstick now. The ascent was tight and spiralling, wooden balustrades whipped past dizzyingly fast on either side, promising a grisly demise should so much as an elbow be out of place.

James knew better than to attempt to draw alongside Lynch here, it was too tight, too treacherous. He tucked into the slipstream and focused forwards, planning his move the moment he opportunity arose.

And arise it did, as they shot free, up towards the beckoning moon, low across the seating and then sharply downwards towards the entrance gate. James took a tighter line, his broom vibrating intensely – in protest or glee he couldn't be sure, and slipping beneath Lynch's feet. A well-aimed kicked connected with the back of James' head, bucking him forward violently. His face crashed into the solid wood of the handle, pain and steely blood blossomed. Droplets flowed freely from his nose. His eyes watered, blurring his vision for the upcoming corkscrew turn through the gate. He blinked fiercely but couldn't clear them. Furiously, he scrubbed at his eyes. Lynch used the distraction to regain the lead, and James found himself trailing once more.

Lynch was first through the northern hoops, and his broom was able to just keep ahead of James' in the sprint across the pitch, making him first through the goal hoop at the southern end, leading after lap one. James' opportunities to overtake were beginning to dwindle.

The second lap passed much as the first had. Frustratingly, Lynch maintained the lead through aggressive defensive flying. James let himself settle in to the feel of the broom, and his cornering improved as a result. Slowly, painfully, the metres between them were swallowed up in relentless pursuit until, late on the third lap, James saw his opening.

The pair were dodging in between the golden trunks of the northern goal posts. All that was left ahead was to streak across the length of the pitch and be the first through the central hoop. Only one of them would fit. Only one would still be on the team coming out the other side.

James dropped his shoulder, feeling the cold kiss of metal on his inside cheek, as he rounded the last post with less than a millimetre to spare. Lynch had taken a more conservative line, eager not to mess up and lose his lead. But James had everything to play for, there was no risk that wasn't worth taking.

He carried more speed out of the turn than Lynch did. A quarter of the way across the pitch, the pair were level. Panic tinged Lynch's scowl as he turned to look. He was so close that James could see the whites of his eyes. They connected for some solid contact. Lynch threw a wild elbow, James aimed a vicious kick. Both missed. They cursed in unison. The halfway line zipped path beneath their toes, almost unnoticed.

James leaned in again to shove Lynch off course. The hum of his broomstick took on a cruel tone, angry and buzzing like a swarm of bees. It bucked beneath him as he shouldered in, countering Lynch's flying fist. The added power gave his shove more strength. The fist whipped across James' vision, connected somewhere around his collarbone. The pain was momentary, drowned out by the satisfying contact shuddering up his opposite shoulder where he connected cleanly with Lynch's jaw.

The strangled yell Lynch gave was music to James' ears. He didn't even look back to see him tumble towards the ground, his eyes were only on that beautiful, burnished golden hoop. As he shot through it for a clean victory, he almost through he saw a flash of lightning illuminate the sky, the very heavens joining in on his triumph.

James punched the air, he slapped his broom and let out a whoop that startled a flock of birds as far away as the Forbidden Forest. He circled back down to where Lynch remained at centre-field. Perplexed as to why he hadn't tried to finish, or why he wasn't even looking in James' direction.

As James got closer, a cold finger of dread began to slip down beneath his collar. Lynch's wand was out. Another flash of light from near the entrance. Not lightning, _spellfire_.

James reached back for his own wand, never taking his eyes from Lynch. He touched down a safe distance away, advancing slowly. The sound of raised voices reached him. Shouting. A yell of pain.

'James!' Fred's voice grabbed his attention. He was tearing across the pitch from behind. As he approached, James recoiled at the massive black eye and weeping cuts along one side of his face. He was short of breath, grimacing in pain, desperation etched across his face. 'James, it was a trap. One- one of the volunteers was Lynch's spy. Let in a- a handful of students. Jumped us. We've got to get out of here.'

James' snarl was animal fierce. He levelled his wand at Lynch and marched towards him, broomstick forgotten in the grass.

'James, don't! We've got to go! There's at least a dozen of them.'

' _Lynch!'_ the roar tore at the back of James' throat.

'You're not taking this from me, Potter. Not this time. Not _again._ This is _mine!'_ his face was twisted into an ugly snarl, his eyes wide and bulging. A vein bulged on his neck. Blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, adding colour to the picture of moonlit insanity.

'Lynch, you agreed to this. Those were the rules!'

'James!'

Fred's voice was shot through with panic. James turned to see where he was gesturing, and his blood froze as no fewer than twelve students, their faces obscured with black headscarves, strolled forth from the changing rooms and onto the field. From behind James, Tristan and Clip were the only ones to have made it. Both bore myriad injuries, and Clip looked to be wandless. Three and a half against thirteen.

Perhaps Lynch had won, after all.

'It's over, Potter. _We_ decide the outcome. And' we've come to the conclusion that _I_ was first through the hoop tonight. _Accio broomstick!'_

James' brand new broom reluctantly tumbled through the air towards Lynch.

' _Impedimenta!'_

' _Protego!'_

Lynch snarled, forced to raise a hasty shield charm against Tristan's jinx. It quickly turned into laughter.

'Now you've done it. Fired the first Hex, started the fight. Teachers won't like that, Macmillan.How about I show you all a little bit of _self-defence?'_

Lynch and his thugs lowered their wands together. James looked at Tristan and Fred. They formed a protective wall around the wandless Clip. They were bloodied and bruised, limping and hurt, but determination flared bright in their eyes.

It was they who charged first.


	17. Cracked Bridges & Dusty Dunes

_A/N: A belated Merry Christmas to all! The only gift I have to give is some JSP, so here's 10,000 words of it!_

* * *

James locked eyes with one of the would-be attackers as he charged. He made no effort to reign in the frustration, betrayal and searing rage that swept him along in its wild current. The curse that came to his lips was meant to inflict pain. He wanted to _hurt_ them. To show Lynch once and for all. His wordless howl rose above the melee. His lowered wand began to glow a rich, thirsty red.

A tongue of flame shot forth from Tristan's wand. Licking eagerly at the opposing students. It left swathes of scorched earth and hesitant flinches in its wake.

All of a sudden the air became thick and soupy, like he was running underwater. His arms flailed heavily, his legs dragged, stubborn and sluggish. His first thought was that one of them had hexed him, but when anger turned to confusion in his opponent's eyes, he realised they were all similarly afflicted.

James' want winked out, the spell dead. His cry was strangled and muted, his lungs left empty and heaving. He finally froze in place, mid-leap, less than a yard from the other students. He could only see were their eyes through the slits in their headscarves, but confusion and panic reigned over all.

Tristan's flame fizzled. The score or so of students sat, frozen, staring daggers at each other across a gap they could physically have reached through, but was now interminable. Try as he might, James could not break through his invisible wands. His rage began to dwindle as it threw itself fruitlessly again and again at this new opponent. Eventually, with chest heaving and sheathed in sweat, the red mists of battle cleared from his own eyes completely.

A burst of lightning illuminated the grounds. James grunted. The afterimage left him momentarily blinded. With its passing, his bonds flew free, and he, Fred, Tristan and Clip staggered upright once more. Unbridled panic overcame the confusion in their attackers' eyes.

Another flash, another moment of blindness, and all of a sudden, they weren't alone. A half-dozen more figures in black strode among Lynch's frozen thugs. James braced himself for a new attack, until they started tearing off the headscarves of the thugs unceremoniously, revealing their identities. Greengrass, Malkin, Summerbee, Mills, Knight. All of Preston's usual suspects. With their faces bared, and unable to move, they looked much more like cowering children than bold attackers. James barked a laugh.

The way the newcomers in black glided so casually in and out of the shadows, using the low light of the moon to keep always on the edges of sight announced them as Durmstrang's _Tishna_ even before the nearest one removed his hood to shoot James a friendly wink. His face was painted ashen grey, in the semblance of a skull. That could only mean-

'The small man hides behind his friends. Taking the Path of the Coward out of a bet he had no intention of keeping.'

The unmistakeable voice of Pot-Head reverberated through the entire stadium, magically enhanced so loud that it resonated deep in James' chest. Cruel satisfaction shone in the eyes of their _Tishna_ allies.

Preston's eyes looked manic. Darting around, trying to locate the source of the voice. A bright light illuminated first one, and then every grandstand lining the Pitch. A Greyface stood atop each one, bearing levelled wands and a stoic mien.

'There used to be a law in my country, that any man who took the Cowards Path following a lost duel would be Silenced. Severed from their magic forever. A concept so terrifying that it would often drive those who suffered such a fate to kill themselves.'

The terror on Lynch's face was a portrait of beauty to James.

'The practice is outlawed, but the principal remains. We have no use for cowards.'

On his final words, the spells binding Lynch's cronies dissipated. Several fell to the ground in whimpering heaps, covering their heads. A couple of the bolder ones bolted for it. Odin Mills waddled off like he'd wet his pants, or worse.

Lynch, still frozen, sagged in defeat. Likely only the bonds held him up, now.

To James' amazement, Pot-Head stepped casually over the barrier, and floated down to ground level to join them, calmly alighting as if he'd done no more than a mere Sunday stroll. He looked Lynch directly in the eyes, and bared his teeth in a wicked smile.

'Now, if you are ready to do this Dance, I have no hesitations.'

Lynch's eyes darted to James. A look of pleading. James shook his head once, his gaze level.

Preston Lynch's wand fell to the grass, nestling among the grass and looking small and alone. The last of his followers fled.

'You'll regret this, Potter. My family has power. We'll-'

The spell triggered once more, and Lynch trailed off instantly. James took Pot-Head's place with a nod of thanks, taking his turn to look into the crazed pit of despair and rage that was Preston's visage.

'What's done is done, Lynch. As far as I'm concerned, we've settled things between us. You lost, and by rights you should be off the team.'

Lynch struggled wordlessly against his bonds.

'But. We both know that you're one of the best – well, second best – fliers in our year. Maybe the school. I don't want to ruin our chances of winning this thing. Because this isn't about us. It's not _our_ fight that matters. What matters is fighting for Hogwarts. For winning that trophy and showing everyone every time we get out on this pitch that we are the best, and that we deserve to win it. My payment for your defeat is this. Put everything between us to the wayside. Forget it, burn it to ashes and scatter it to the wind. What comes next _needs_ to be better than what was before. Like a phoenix.'

James held out his hand. His wand remained at his side. His gaze was open and earnest. Merlin, but he wanted this to be over. He was drained and sore and just so tired. A cascade of emotions tumbled across Lynch's face as he was set free from his bonds.

'Fine,' Lynch finally growled. He snatched his broom from where it lay and turned his back on James. 'Keep your stupid phoenix. See you on the pitch.'

James signalled to Pot-Head to let him leave. They all looked on in silence.

'Well, that went about as well as could be expected,' Fred quipped.

'Thanks,' James turned to Pot-Head. This time his offered hand was taken amicably. 'We owe you one.'

'Always an even exchange,' he grinned mysteriously. With a flick of his wrist, the half-dozen _Tishna_ students folded back into the night and were lost among the shadows. It was only the four of them.

'Why didn't you let us take him out?' Tristan asked, flexing his knuckles. 'Merlin, I'd have loved to lay that git out.'

'We are a fighting school,' Pot-Head replied. 'And if there is one thing that you will learn from a fighting school, it is that sometimes, the best decision is not to fight at all.'

* * *

Harry Potter stepped carefully over a young child squealing with glee at a stuffed toy Murtlap which did little more than run in circles repeatedly, emitting a gross squeal, each time it was touched. Another was busy setting part of their cough alight, while a third and fourth bounced happily around the room on their backsides, almost as high as he was tall. Magical children were _hard work._

'So when did you say the new premises would be finished?' he asked, upon finally making it through to the relative safety of the kitchen. Hermione and Ginny had shut themselves in there, both nursing large glasses of what looked to be Firewhiskey.

'Are they burning things again?' Hermione asked with trepidation. Upon Harry's nod, she sighed and placed her glass down. Setting her shoulders and heading back in with the look of a woman wading into a battle zone.

Harry picked up her discarded glass and helped himself, mindful of the lipstick marring the rim.

'Lot of work, these kids,' he mused.

'They just keep coming,' Ginny replied, despairing. 'Every day, more. I mean, it's great, teaching the young ones, giving them a proper magical education before Hogwarts. But I just wish someone would feed them a bit of Dozing Draught before they arrived.'

'Got a bit of that nasty brandy Ron bought us, could try that.'

Ginny smiled playfully. The corners of her brown eyes crinkled, and the light that shone from them seemed to melt away all of Harry's problems. So many years of marriage, and there were no walls he could put up that she couldn't effortlessly tear away with a simple glance.

'The kids are going to be so excited,' her smile turned mischievous, and Harry joined in, hiding it behind a sip of Firewhiskey.

'I still haven't told them. Picking them up shortly. Renshaw insisted on making them think they were in trouble.'

'I'll never understand that woman's sense of humour.'

'I'll never understand that woman.'

The amicable silence into which they lapsed was cracked open by a sharp rapping on the window. A nondescript, grey barn owl. Harry's heart deflated.

'It's like they _know,'_ Ginny frowned. 'Not even a minute of peace.'

Harry growled appropriately, and plucked free the letter. As usual, the owl disappeared without waiting for a reply.

He scanned its contents, his face growing darker as he did. Ginny instinctively glided to his side, resting her head on his shoulder, but saying nothing until he was ready to speak.

'Trouble in South America. At the- where _it_ is hidden.'

'Where Teddy…'

'Aye. The very same.'

'You don't think it's _causing,_ all of this, do you? The sickness?'

'Reckon someone else does, at least.'

'You don't have to go back, do you? Not now?'

'No, not now. But soon. Too soon. I'm not finished with Teddy. We're so close to catching him. Whoever it is, I can feel it. Ron's going to have to take over.'

'That'll be hard on him.'

'We all have our burdens.'

Harry's gaze was distant, out across the treetops of their back yard, up into the uncaring blue sky that stared back in silence.

'When does it stop?' Ginny's voice as soft. Not plaintive, but weary. It made Harry feel tired to his very core.

'When there's nothing left to fight.'

'And when will that be? There's always something, somewhere. We're getting old, Harry. We have families now, children.'

'Exactly. And I won't let them shoulder this one. I've been there – _we_ have been there. This is the biggest gift I can grant them.'

'I know. I just hate that it has to be us.'

Harry stroked her hair softly. He made a noise deep in his throat that might have been acquiescence, or perhaps merely for comfort. The statement he uttered to the room was beginning to feel like practised rhetoric. His own personal dogma.

'If not us, who?'

* * *

The Gryffindor third-year girls' dormitory was so very, very pink. Pink four-poster beds, pink rugs, pink throws and countless pink cushions. There was not a single inch of plain wood left visible that wasn't hidden beneath a series of posters or upholstery or a giant, garish divan. Almost as if it was an embarrassment for it to be on display.

The girls responsible for such a feat of decoration currently lay peacefully asleep in their beds. Pink silk sheets and pink frilly pyjamas, matched by a dozen pink pillows and lush, pink duvets. All, that was, save for one, who was tossing and turning restlessly. Her feet peeked out the edge of her faded pink covers. The great spill of silvery hair that haloed her head shone like liquid quicksilver in the first rays of morning sunlight. Her eyelids fluttered, and her legs worked as if she were trying to run, but getting nowhere. A small moan escaped her lips, followed by a heart-wrenching whimper, filled with loss and sadness.

When her eyes snapped open, and she sucked in her first, deep lungful of air, there were tears tracking down her smooth, pale cheeks. She was whispering something, so quiet that even she could barely hear. Her lips moved in the same refrain, over and over as she rocked back and forth, repeated a single phrase.

'Red day. No, not red. Not red. Please.'

* * *

James' stupid grin just refused to go away. He was grinning at Al, who mirrored his look with wide-eyed incredulity. He grinned at Lily, who tried to mask her bubbling enthusiasm with the Slytherin calm that she seemed so adamant in perfecting. He grinned at the back of his dad's jumper as they followed behind him, at a nearby stranger waiting in the same queue as them. Even at a little rabbit that happened to hop by, completely unfazed by the gaggle of wizards clamouring to get through the vaunted archway before them.

They were going to the Triwizard Tournament. The _real_ one.

They'd flooed straight from Renshaw's office to a gatehouse on the grounds of Beauxbatons Academy. James had asked approximately seven hundred and thirteen questions in that time frame. It was only now that Al had stopped quivering from excitement. _This_ was to be their Christmas present, their gift for having to stay at Hogwarts through the holidays. James had offered to stay every Christmas from now until seventh year if this was the result.

The line to enter the Beauxbatons grounds proper was making lumbering, slow progress. Each and every wizard was being thoroughly combed over with a variety of Dark Detectors, as well as run through a gauntlet of a half-dozen Kneazles who were entirely disinterested in the whole affair. There was a shorter line, moving much quicker for the natives of the region, and those who had children at the school. A shorter line again for the Durmstrang counterparts didn't seem to be having nearly as much trouble as they did.

'Why is our line so _slow,'_ James moaned impatiently.

'Not particularly trusting of British Wizards, lately.' Harry muttered. 'What with the Infected, and now international relations beginning to fray over this whole tournament, as well … They tried to restrict the number of us allowed to attend. Renshaw took that none-too-lightly.'

'Damn Blues,' James grumbled.

'Oi,' Harry barked, giving James a firm ruffle of his hair. 'Don't let them catch you saying that. Behave yourselves. We're here as official guests of the Head of School. Try and act like it.'

'Of course, Daddy,' Lily preened. James could just see her chest puffed up with pride at the concept of their newly-discovered elevated status. She was catching the Slytherin already.

The low wall that marched off through the countryside left and right inhibited the family from any view of the actual grounds, and James had counted three-hundred and seventy four limestone bricks within it before it was their turn to be probed and prodded.

The French security detail fussed and exclaimed over Harry, but their sly smiles and shared glances spoke more to the fact that they were enjoying robbing the group of their dignity, more than anything else. As they were about to walk through the short tunnel towards the Chateau, the head of security threw an arm out, barring their path. James saw his father's fingers twitch. Sensing danger, perhaps? He made a mental note of where his own wand was. But the staff were merely pausing to write a letter, sending it ahead of them on paper wings, the soft, lavender-scented parchment left a pleasant trail behind as it fluttered on ahead, leading the way.

The three children let out an identical gasp as they exited the tunnel onto the grounds proper. Lily was staring at the boundless gardens, which stretched as far as the eye could see. Riots of colour from roses and violets and a hundred other types of flowers James could not name drew the eye ever onward, perfectly arranged so that the view simply had to be stopped and admired. The perfectly manicured lawns wended their way through the entirety of it, a verdant carpet that shone so lush it put the rolling hills of Hogwarts to shame. With the mountains of the Pyrenees as a backdrop, it was enough to steal the breath away.

Al was fixated on the massive fountain immediately ahead of them, of a young witch and wizard, imposing and alluring in their beauty, their bodies perfectly carved in flowing marble, intertwined in what was clearly a lovers' embrace. It stood at least thrice as tall as James himself, the delicate carving clearly supported and strengthened by magic. The water that flowed form it was so clear and bright, and it caught the sun in such a way as to make the chilly mountain air seem that much warmer for its light.

James' own imagination was captured by the building itself. A massively imposing Chateau, backed up against a sheer, rugged face of a mountain which reached a jutting, stony finger up to stir the thin clouds overhead. The building seemed to flow forth from the living earth. It was hard to pick from this distance where nature ended and humanity began. The subtle greys and blacks and tans of the building were just as moss-covered and ivy-dripping as the rock itself, so that James' eyes kept gliding right over the break without registering it properly. The façade that stared down over them, ruling the extensive grounds from its slightly raised position, was perfectly ordered and immaculately imposing. Each window matched its neighbour. Each curtain pulled the exact same amount. Nowhere was the ivy more or less dense. Not a single scuff or mark dotted the rooftop from the resident owls that circled around an outhouse to James' left. Giant, carved pillars thicker around than James could reach flanked the gaping entranceway, with equally-scaled flags of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic adorning each one, alerting all who passed through the entrance, just whose domain into which they were entering.

The perfect order was a stark contrast against the bluff slab of granite that jutted up behind it. Where the Chateau was all neat edges and perfect angles, the rock was rounded, uneven and scarred. Wounds in the rock may have spoken to ancient attempts to tame its chaos, but hundreds of years of erosion now left those marks as little more than unsightly, embarrassing reminders of the hubris of humans who thought they could control nature.

The small group elicited a few pointed stairs from the officials who greeted them at the door. They were showed personally through the Chateau, towards where the arena was set up. James felt more like he was walking through somebodies house, than through a school of magic. The rich, stained wooden floors shone warmly, the carpet was thick and soft, not a single hint of a threadbare section. The portraits that hung on the walls didn't shout abuse or calls-to-arms, they merely gazed on in a stately manner down their long, aristocratic noses. James felt he was being judged by a set of particularly disapproving grandmothers.

They were led deeper through the building, until, at one point, James noticed that the windows simply ceased to exist. The only light provided now was by a series of tiny, floating globes which hovered just above head height down the length of the corridor. The glow was steady and cool, unlike the flickering torchlight of Hogwarts castle. And so it was able to make even a subterranean corridor feel like a well-lit thoroughfare.

'Daddy, I want to go-'

'Not a chance, darling,' Harry smiled, patting Lily on the shoulder with a grin.

'Are we inside a mountain?' Al asked.

James and Harry nodded in response.

' _Awesome.'_

The next doorway was flanked by a half-dozen more of the security guards. They had on powder-blue jackets and trousers, with little hats that James thought looked ridiculous. They hustled and bobbed and bowed to all the wizards, and shot them dark glares behind their backs when they thought no-one was looking. The one that approached Harry and the children was all crooning smiles and subservience, but a dirty gleam of something akin to repulsion hovered deep within his eyes, and the way he would never quite let himself touch any of the group.

'Ah, Monsieur Potter and family. Such beautiful children. Please, follow me. Your seats will be this way.' He began to lead them down a corridor to their left.

'I was told we'd be sitting with the delegation.' Harry hadn't moved, he was reading a sign that clearly indicated they should he heading down to the right.

'Ah, but my sincerest of apologies, Monsieur Potter. There has been a slight… how do you say… change of plan. New seats have been found for your lovely family among the spectators from 'Ogwarts.'

Harry glared suspiciously at him. The guard refused to meet his gaze, his eyes downcast, his shoulders slumped in gross obedience that made James' skin crawl. As he made a particularly deep bow, James spied a tiny little lavender slip of parchment tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket.

'Let's sit with the school Dad, that will be better than the boring old diplomats,' Al prodded.

Harry's gaze didn't change, but he nodded slowly. The guard sighed, as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Back at the desk, the other guards were already busy trying to direct a large contingent of Durmstrang supporters who spoke not a word of English, but among the frantic melee, James spied another of the blue-clad figures scribbling a hasty note, this time on a peach-hued sheet of dainty parchment.

The corridor down which they were led was narrow and unadorned. The walls were plain grey rock. The floating orbs provided light which cast long shadows, exacerbating the uneven nature of the stone. Their guard frowned around at all of it, as if he disapproved of anything that wasn't a perfectly ruled edge. They tracked for a few minutes in silence, before a spill of golden light ahead announced their destination. They were shown their seating, and left at the door with an overly polite smile. James was willing to bet the guard couldn't wait to bad-mouth them to his counterparts.

The petty security guards were torn from James' mind instantly, however, as they stepped out into the arena prepared for the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. The golden light that lit the area was natural, a stark contrast to the cool, glowing orbs. It was natural, because the massive cavern into which they had just entered was the hollow core of a mountain, the top open to the bright blue sky far above. The pale sun shone down high above the sheer, dizzying walls of implacable rock that stretched up to meet it. James felt queasy for a moment contemplating the enormous weight of all that earth sitting above them.

The space was roughly circular in shape, and could have served for the Beauxbatons Quidditch pitch if James didn't know better – it bore similar dimensions. Grandstand seating marched up each wall, already packed with the riot of colours and hues that came from any large gathering of witches and wizards. Harry led the kids down to the very front row, and James instantly rushed to peek over the low wall at the arena in which the task would take place.

Where the mountain air and the alpine countryside outside the school had been fresh and cool, the moment James poked his head over the barrier, he was assaulted by a stifling blast of hot air. Craggy, shattered desert plains stretched across the encircled area. The distances were all wrong, James noted. It was nauseating looking right across at the stands opposite – a mere couple of hundred years – but that very same distance within the arena appeared to extend closer to a mile. He had to focus intently to study the landscape before him.

Clouds of sand were whipped up on this stifling, magical wind. They buffeted against broken, dead trees, bent and twisted and gnarled as if by years in the sun. Mudstone flats were cracked, leaving uneven, flat expanses of dusty ochre that cried out for a touch of rain. The very earth itself seemed broken here, riven through with a series of gigantic fractures that dropped down to unknown depths below. A series of rickety rope bridges appeared to be the only way to surpass them. Each one heaving and bucking in the blustery gale.

There was no signs of life within the arena. Nothing green or fresh or new. Everything was a dry, parched brown. Variations on the one shade that trapped the eyes over rolling hills and subtle landforms into overlooking the treacherous crags underfoot. Even as James watched, the movements of the crowds stirred forth a miniature landslide over the edge of the nearest such. A sea of sand flowed like desiccated water, hissing so loud as to ring in his ears as it tumbled down to an uncertain fate. For the briefest of moments a sliver of bedrock was exposed, before more sand shifted in to take its place, the transient nature of the desert in action.

James pulled back from the brink. He hadn't realised he had been sweating. He felt sunburned from that short time alone.

'What d'you reckon they're doing?' he asked Al excitedly.

'Maybe they've just got to make it across the desert?' Al replied, frowning in the way he always did when deep in thought.

'The bridges must be important,' Lily added. 'Maybe they have to cross them in a particular order, or collect something at each one.'

'Maybe,' James agreed, gesturing at the nearest of the giant faults that tore through the desert-scape. 'Do you think they could hide a dragon down one of those?'

'I ruddy-well hope not,' Harry grinned, ushering the children into their seats. He gestured high above them, where a series of floating, silver-bottomed platforms were taking off, packed to the brim with official-looking witches and wizards. Cameras flashed and puffed throughout the crowd.

'Great seats, Dad!' Al exclaimed. They were so close to the action that he could rest his feet up on the barrier. A low, rocky overhang was just peeking up above the wall directly in front of them, some sort of shelter or lair, James thought.

'Mmm.' Harry was noncommittal. 'Don't so much like being out in the open. Were supposed to have one of those floating platforms to ourselves.'

'There won't be any Infected here, though.' James assured. 'Not with all of that security, surely.'

'No, likely not.' Harry replied, distracted.

Just as the announcers in their floating platforms were making ready to introduce the task, a pair of familiar faces shuffled in next to them.

'Luna!' Harry roared. 'Kattala! I didn't know you were coming.'

He leapt up to wrap first Luna, and the Cat up in a hug. Luna was wearing a thick, heavy fur-lined coat that belonged in the Arctic Circle more than it did a few feet away from a sweltering desert. Cat looked mighty uncomfortable, her eyes darting about the cavern fearfully.

'Kattala, what is your mother feeding you. You seem to be getting taller every time I see you!'

Cat's smile was a little forced, but her eyes lit up. 'I think it's the Nargles,' she said conspiratorially. 'They sneak into my bed at night and pull on my toes.'

Her face was deathly serious.

'Ah, I see,' Harry responded, equally sincere. 'That's why I always carry one of these.' He fished in his pocket for a moment, James saw a Butterbeer cork appear in his hand.

Cat clapped with glee, showing off a rather ungainly necklace she had made of the things, kept tucked under her jacket.

'Didn't know you were coming,' James exclaimed as they sat down together. The announcer's voice was booming, introducing each of the school Champions.

'Mummy knows one of the trainers.' Now that they were sat so close, James could clearly tell Cat was uncomfortable. Her leg was twitching non-stop, and her wand was out, resting in her lap. With her free hand, she held that of her mother, tightly.

'You alright?' James asked. He leaned in a little so that they could whisper. Lily was looking far too unobtrusive to not be listening intently.

'Do you know that feeling you get, when you're walking down the stairs and you think you're at the bottom, but there's actually one more?'

'Erm…'

'Your foot falls through the air where you thought there was ground. For a moment, your mind knows that you are falling, and you get a rush of shock, or adrenaline. But your body can't do anything about it, is too slow to react. Even though your mind is telling you, " _danger!"_

'Some days when I wake up, I get that same feeling. Every day has a difference _sense,_ a different colour, I suppose. Happy days are purple, or yellow. Adventuring days are blue. Sick days are green. But each time, when I wake up, I'll be sure. My mind just _knows._ It's always right. My body just hasn't had time to catch up yet, hasn't had time to pass the day, and come to terms with the purple or the blue or the green. But it always happens, and there's nothing I can do about it.'

All this talk of colours and senses and falling down stairs was making James' head spin, but he nodded encouragingly, feeling that Cat was close to divulging something important.

'And today… today was _red._ '

'Red doesn't sound very happy.'

'The last time I had a red day-'

' _Ladies and Genltemen, welcome to the opening of the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament!'_

The voice of the announcer boomed through the great cavern, giving the sense that the very mountain itself was shaking.

James tried to cut it out, his attention focused wholly on Cat.

'Last time I had a red day, Mummy nearly died when a spell backfired.'

All of a sudden the snarky looks and secretive note-passing of the security guards took on a more suspicious tone. He wondered if he ought to tell his Dad. But Harry was in an animated conversation with Luna, laughing together like the old friends they were over some shared memory. If something was really wrong, Harry Potter would know about it. Likely more so than Cat's possibly dubious claims of coloured days. On the heels of her assertion that the Nargles had been stretching her at night, she might not be the most reliable source of information. James promised to sit close and keep a watch for her, nonetheless.

The announcer floated slowly over the arena before them. The sand stirred and thrashed angrily, changing the landscape constantly before their very eyes. As he gestured to the beginning of the course, some focused spots of movement caught James' eye, and shapes began to coalesce, rising from beneath the surface like breaching whales. Sand tumbled off their glittering bodies. Smoke now joined in with the tiny grains that played with the wind, as a dozen Fire Crabs appeared before them, angrily clicking pincers and leaving scorched footprints as they scurried about, clearly irate at their slumber being interrupted.

'Oh, aren't they _beautiful,'_ Cat crooned. 'Oh Mummy, look! I think that one's pregnant. All the sapphires on its shell are glowing!'

James squinted, but couldn't make out much of a difference, other than perhaps the Fire Crab in question looking slightly angrier than its counterparts. There was certainly nothing even remotely beautiful about any of them.

The announcer stoked the imaginations of the crowd about the rare, exotic Fire Crabs, all the way from their native Fiji, and the many dangers they possessed. Although at about James' waist height, and relatively slow-moving, he was a little disappointed if _they_ were all the students were up against.

But his displeasure was short-lived, as the announcer sent a shower of red-gold sparks out across the centre of the arena. Far off, what should have been fifty yards but seemed curiously more than five hundred away, the sand began to stir once more. The grey, shapeless figures that began to form beneath it were foreign to James. They appeared to have more legs than the Fire Crabs. The sand rained down of their segmented bodies, and he heard Al gasp beside him.

'That's a- a-'

'Well I'll be,' Harry breathed, a touch of incredulity in his voice. 'A damned Skrewt. I didn't know anyone around was mad enough to still be breeding those things, unless… Say James, you haven't seen one of them in Care of Magical Creatures lately, by any chance?'

'No, thank Merlin.'

There were three of the new specimens out in the arena now, and all must have been brushing close to ten feet long. They looked like giant scorpions, with thick, vicious tails curled menacingly above their bodies, coiled and ready to strike. They scuttled through the sound with a soft, menacing _hiss,_ their awkward gait occasionally broken by a jettison of bright, red sparks shooting out of their rear ends. This would propel them forwards dangerously fast. A bundle of snipping, burning pain speeding at over fifty miles an hour. All of a sudden, James was pretty glad he wasn't out there. Each one patrolled a crag-bounded slab of desert, with a single, rickety bridge between their domains.

The Task was beginning to become clear – an obstacle course across the scorching desert, past the increasingly dangerous animals, with the sole, passable track appearing to lead right up to…

'So what's in this cave?' Al asked, peering over the edge. Harry looked on thoughtfully.

'Well it's obvious, isn't it?' Cat asked. 'Fire Crabs and Skrewts, that has to be a Manticore.'

Harry immediately yanked Al back from the edge.

'Bloody insane,' he was muttering to himself. 'If you three learn nothing else from your time at school, it should be that wizardkind is incredibly slow at learning from its mistakes.'

 _A Manticore!_ James and Al were grinning manically at one another. This was shaping up to be the best Christmas gift ever!

As if in answer to their scrutiny, and that of the entire crowd, a low, guttural growl shuddered forth from the depths of the shadowy overhang.

With a final shower of golden sparks, the announcer drew their attention to a small rock, sitting atop the lair, which James had initially thought to be just any ordinary stone. But as soon as one of the sparks touched it, a small, dust-hued fire sprung to life on its hollowed surface. The flames burned straight and true, avoiding the wild winds that swirled, contained, within the arena. It was mesmerizing, the way it seemed to blend in with the desert one minute, and then stand boldly out against it the next. It held its own kind of rugged beauty, and by the way it was positioned, just out of reach of the Manticore, it was quite clearly the prize.

The Durmstrang champion took to the arena first. A seventh-year student named Raya Novak. She wore dusty beige leathers from head to toe. Despite the lack of the usual black, James picked her as _Tishna_ affiliation by the fluid grace she injected into the simple act of walking down the stairs, or the perfectly balanced curtsey she offered the crowd. The Durmstrang contingent roared.

James watched, enthralled as she seemed to melt into the sand, the moment she set foot on it. The fierce winds were creating a sort of haze of dust and finer grains. Raya seemed to flicker in and out of existence behind it. The only part of her that remained visible was her head. Her pale skin and long, dark hair at times seemed to be floating.

A cannon sounded the beginning, and James, along with the rest of the pack spectators roared their encouragement. Raya offered a gesture of recognition. She pulled a strip of the same coloured cloth from her belt and held it at arm's length, pinched between thumb and forefinger. It flapped angrily against her forearm in the wind. She studied its movements for a long minute. James had to squint so as not to lose her head. The way the arena twisted space, she seemed almost a mile away, down near the start line. The first of the Fire Crabs had seen her, and a strange clicking, whirring noise was emanating from a few of those nearest.

But Raya was unflappable. She slowly tied that last strip of cloth around her face and head. She took time binding up her hair perfectly. Only the barest slit of skin remained visible around her eyes. She was little more than an ochre ghost among the shifting sands to James, now.

'Just like Holly,' Cat breathed, in awe.

James dared not take his eyes from Raya, as she began to move. The driving wind was meant to make the task more difficult for the students, to reduce visibility, and force them to add another layer of thinking into their problem solving when facing creatures much more accustomed to survival in these conditions than they, but despite Durmstrang not being located anywhere near anything resembling a desert, Raya moved as if she had grown up in one her entire life. She moved as if she were part of one, of _this_ one. She disappeared in and out of existence, at times seeming to float on the wind that drove so forcefully across the barren landscape. She made of it a thing of grace, appearing fitfully with fluid movements and an almost sensual charm. Life was given to a scene so dead and bleak. Something that had been hard to look at was now the centre of attention of thousands of eyes, each one straining to see the next glimpse or flicker of humanity within it.

At times, she was little more than a darker smudge against the sea of brown. She drifted effortlessly past the hapless Fire Crabs. Of the dozen or so present, only one was able to pinpoint her. It gave a screech that seemed half-insectile in nature, but before it could jettison a gout of flame in her direction, a jet of cool blue light hit it cleanly, locking it up with a perfect Freezing Charm.

Raya finally became truly visible whilst crossing the first of the haggard, old bridges that criss-crossed the course. The Durmstrang supporters roared with gusto. James, enraptured added his voice to the mix.

Unbidden, Pot-Head's advice drifted back to him now, in light of Raya's tactic: _"Sometimes, the best decision is not to fight at all."_

A mantra that was being played out beautifully before James. She existed in the in-between, that space outside of perception and reality, never quite seeming to manifest for long enough to leave in imprint beyond the faintest of impressions, wherever she went. In the same manner, she flitted passed first one Skrewt, and then all three. She had only had to raise her wand once. A few boos from the Beauxbatons crowd at the lack of _excitement_ were drowned out a dozen times over by Durmstrang's fervour.

James watched avidly as Raya approached the Manticore's Lair. This fragment of the shattered desert was all rocky outcrop. No shifting sands into which she could bury herself. Nowhere to hide. The moment her booted foot stepped off the final bridge, James felt his seat rumble with the deep bass of the Manticore's growl. For a moment – for the first time thus far – Raya Novak hesitated.

And then all chance of hesitation was taken from her, as a blur of muddy gold burst forth, streaking straight for her position. Her roll seemed almost casual, nearly an afterthought. She ducked down so quickly James thought he'd missed something. She rolled beneath the Manticore, as it lunged through mid-air at the spot she had been, suddenly finding itself out of position, and sliding on claws across flat, smooth stone towards a bridge that would not support it.

Raya wasted no time as the Manticore's momentum took it over the edge, tearing the bridge down with it in a series of snapping and cracking of flimsy boards. The chains that kept it bound snapped tight soon after it disappeared from sight, but it was unable to claw itself back upright by the time Raya had sprinted up the rocky bluff to collect her prize. She held the dusty fire aloft to a booming round of cheers.

James had thought it a perfect round, until he saw the thin streamer of blood that flowed down her left arm, and the way she held it limp at her side might not have been entirely by choice. A score of medi-witches rushed over to swamp her beneath a dozen overlapping chants from the Durmstrang crowd. Trainers piled on the Manticore in a similar manner, checking its bindings and ushering it back into its lair.

'Play to your strengths,' Harry said to James. 'Always remember that.'

Raya didn't reappear from the medical tent before the Beauxbatons Champion – Santiago Soares – made his way down to the arena. He was tall – dark of skin and broad of shoulder. He wore a sky blue singlet and tracksuit bottoms. Thick muscles bulged across his chest and down his arms. No few girls among the crowd sat a little straighter as he blew a few pointed kisses out to those gathered.

Where Raya had sought to move _with_ the desert, and make herself a part of it, Santiago seemed adamant to move in counter. To be his very own force of nature. Every step he took, every spell or action was in direct opposition to the chaos that the wind and sand and heat tried to impart upon him. He sought to impose his own little bubble or order.

His first move was to create a windbreak for himself, a bubble about twenty feet across that the sand reached and fell limp, the breath was stolen from the wind, and calmness reigned. He pushed this ahead of himself. Even with the magically-enhanced distance, he was easy to spot every step of the way. A small groove was left in the sand at his passing. The Fire Crabs clicked and screeched. A hail of fire rained down upon him, but fizzled uselessly against a glimmering, silver shield he erected. It was a thing of beauty, and worked flawlessly, but James couldn't help thinking that it looked so out of place among the dry ochre landscape.

The Skrewts put up more of a fight. It took Soares a while to figure out that their chitinous armour deflected most charms. One of the larger ones propelled itself towards him with a gout of fire from its rear end. Soares spun away, but it was nothing compared to Raya's subtle grace, and the crowd gasped as a gout of blood spurted forth where the stinger grazed his cheek. The Skrewt, sensing blood, tried the same tactic again, but this time it was met with a nasty orange spell right in its soft underbelly. Soares left it twitching on the ground, a swath of charred sand in his wake, as he waded on with his air bubble to the next island.

This time, there was no tentative stepping onto the platform that the Manticore inhabited. Soares' footfalls were sure and heavy. The roar that answered shook the stadium. A rain of dust fell from the high walls of the mountain above them, and sent a chilly flicker of fear down James' spine.

The Manticore approached slower this time, and James was finally able to get a glimpse of it. The tail of a scorpion, body of a lion, and the face of a man. A thing of nightmares, and childhood bedtime-readings. A sting that was almost instant death. A ton of coiled muscles and claw and hatred. The medi-witches rimming the perimeter watched on in anticipation.

A great, flowing mane of golden hair marched all the way down the Menticore's spine. When it turned its head to face them, James flinched back. There was _nothing_ human about that. Bulging yellow eyes with slit pupils, knife-long fangs and twisted features that snarled and spit pure, distilled rage, he could not see it as anything but a bitter mockery of humanity, rather than something attempting to resemble it. In the sunlight that filtered down to them, high above the mountain, the stinger glowed wetly. Low and coiled as it was, it whispered of death and pain, right in James' ear.

The chains that bound it were thick and heavy. One for each hind leg. Every other step it took, it tried to shake them loose. Manticores were sentient creatures. It knew. And it was furious.

To his credit, Soares didn't falter. He instantly sought to claim the upper hand, hurling a barrage of _Bombarda, Reducto_ and nastier things that James didn't recognise at the beast, seeking to drive it backwards. The display was impressive; spell after spell burst forth from his wand, thick red and silver and golden jest of light, each one finding a home on or around the Manticore. Though it was impervious to the effects of the spells, the sheer force of Soares' will was driving it backwards. It swatted at the spells, biting and gnashing its teeth in frustration. It suddenly slapped a boulder in Soares' direction that he hadn't expected. It clipped him on the shoulder, spinning him off balance, and opening up a gap in the barrage of spellfire. The Manticore sensed the opening, and pounced.

This time, there was no soft underbelly to target, and Soares barely rolled free in time. The stinger buried itself a half foot into the bare rock where he had just been. A scatter pf pebbles an dust spoke to the ferocity of the strike.

Soares' shoulder was clearly damaged. His left arm was slow to react, and the skin showing through beneath his top was a bloody mess. The Manticore could smell the blood, and was making an eerie crooning sound that sent a haze of lethargy creeping up James' limbs. Soares' eyes became glazed over, his steps shuddered to a halt. The crowd gasped as the Manticore prepared for the final blow.

Until, at the absolute last second, Soares summoned the giant rock that had struck him. It rocketed over, colliding with the Manticore on its trajectory, sending both collapsing to the ground in a heap. Soares leapt into action, hammering the Manticore repeatedly with the boulder, once more back to his tactic of brute-forcing the beast back into its lair. This time, he was successful, and he brought down a massive section of the rock overhang onto the Manticore's chain, denting it, and effectively preventing the beast from moving more than a few feet in any direction. It roared in fury at hatred, but Soares had eyes only for his trophy, which he was soon holding aloft to deafening cheers from all around the stadium.

'I thought he was done for!' Al gasped. 'That was terrifying. Is this not the best thing _ever?'_

' _I_ could tell he was faking,' Lily said prissily, tightening her Slytherin scarf around her neck.

A commotion in front of their seats called the nearby security guards away. He hadn't caught anything from their rapid French, but they seemed in a frightful hurry. The arena was a hive of activity as the medi-witches swarmed Soares, guiding him over to the tent even as he tried to stay and parade about with his trophy. The trainers were working on repairing the rocky overhang above the Manticore lair. A half dozen of them were hurriedly levitating and sealing and repairing the arena. No fewer than ten more were attempting to keep the Manticore subdued. Spells ricocheted off its hide. One clattered into the chains that held it, sending free a burst of sparks.

Finally, it was time for the Hogwarts champion. Archie MacDougal. Seventh-year, long-time Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Five-time award winner of the coveted Hogwarts' Best Party award. Rumour had it he'd been dating one girl from each school while he'd been over here. He nearly had to pull out of the tournament when they all found out and got their revenge.

More than a few boos sounded as he took to the stage. All from the Beauxbatons supporters. A few whistles and rude gestures were cast Archie's way, but he soaked it all up just the same, stoking the fire by bowing and blowing kisses, clearly mocking his predecessor.

'This kid applied to be an Auror a little while back,' Harry told James. 'When he was in _fifth_ year. We could have taken him, too, if he hadn't been underage. Or turned up to the interview drunk.'

'Archie is _smart?'_

'When he's not a half-bottle of Firewhiskey into the afternoon, he's a genius. Kid's got issues, though. I tried to get him help, but… never mind. Let's just watch.'

Archie breezed his way through the Fire Crabs without so much as a scratch. He paused to bow on the first bridge, drawing forth another round of cheers and jeers in equal parts. The Skrewts took a little more work. He stopped to think for a moment, and even over the sounds of the wind James could hear him utter: 'Merlin, you're ugly. No wonder they like you over here.'

The nearest Skrewt evidently took offence to that, and launched itself headlong towards his position. Clearly improvising, Archie drew on a lifetime of Beating practice, grabbing the thing by its tail mid-flight and using his strength to toss it across one of the chasms onto the platform where the third Skrewt waited. The two instantly began tearing each other apart. Thoughtful, Archie skipped across to face the second.

'Come on you overgrown lobster, time to meet your buddies.'

It wasn't long before all three Skrewts were happily engaged in a battle to the death, and Archie was able to sneak by, completely unnoticed and unscathed. The home crowd made their displeasure known.

When the Manticore stepped forth, Archie faltered a little for the first time.

'Well, fuck,' he swore, looking at the beast. But it wasn't long before his wand was out, and James saw his mouth moving, the tip of his wand twitching in an astoundingly intricate pattern.

Then, before anyone could so much as yell _"that's a terrible idea!"_ Archie sprinted at the Manticore, full-tilt. James gasped as, with every footfall, the stone seemed to raise up to meet Archie as he ran. Each step he took, a pillar of stone broke free from the ground, raising him up higher, so that he was dashing along a treacherous set of stairs moulded by his will. Soon he was at head height, then thrice as tall as James. Then, by the time he reached the Manticore he was over thirty feet off the ground. And each time he put his foot confidently forward, a pillar of stone shot up to meet him with a sudden, explosive grating sound. The Manticore strained and leapt, roaring in abject fury and frustration, but couldn't leap high enough to catch him.

The last few steps were the closest Archie would come to the snapping jaws and jabbing tail. His concentration was absolute, his lips still moving non-stop. His focus was so centred on the task at hand, that he didn't even notice the Manticore leap forward so strongly that it sheared clean through the chain that had been damaged by Soares' rockfall and overlooked by the trainers.

The stinger leapt forwards hungrily, arcing through the air just as Archie, oblivious, made his final leap for the trophy. James saw the collision, the jet black, glistening tail with Archie's booted feet. It knocked the latter off of his course, but not enough to stop his momentum. He seemed not to have even noticed. He rolled, scooped up the trophy in one hand, and sprung gracefully to his feet, holding it aloft. The crowd held their breath.

And then Archie collapsed.

The Manticore, sensing a kill, sprung forward. The single chain wasn't enough to hold it, and it tore free easily, leaping up atop the rocky overhang, a thick bundle of rippling muscle. The crowd was screaming now, all around James. The security guards were nowhere to be seen. The Medi-witches dared not enter without their protection. The Trainers had likewise vanished.

People were leaping out of their seats in terror, fleeing in every direction. Pushing, shoving. James felt someone stand on his foot. He got an elbow in the back of the head. His vision swum for a moment. Harry gripped his shirt, fierce and unwavering, bringing him back to his senses. A pair of figures were wading through the crowd, _towards_ the Manticore which circled Archie where he lay.

'Not my son you overgrown kitten!' roared a powerful voice. James saw Archie's twin brother, Will charging alongside his father. A pair of brilliant red jets rocketed forth from their wands before Harry had the time to yell 'No!'

The spells fizzled against the Manticore's hide to no effect. But it turned and saw several hundred vulnerable people in blind panic. James thought he might have seen a smile creep across that inhuman face for the briefest of moments.

The leap towards the crowd seemed to be in slow motion for James. Harry's voice was roaring in his ear throughout the long, drawn-out duration of it. Lily's shriek was warring for attention. The mass of humanity flinched back together as the muscle-bound bundle of claws and stinger landed upon a set of vacated seats. Bodies hammered into them, pressing in from all sides. Harry's grip on James' jersey was broken by a falling witch. He yelled, though his voice was lost in the thousand screams around him.

He followed the witch to the ground. Hit the concrete hard and bit clean through his tongue. Blood rushed into his mouth, hot and bitter. Elbows and feet and knees peppered him all over. He tried to get up, was pushed down again and again. It was all he could do to put his hands over his head to protect himself. The press was so close and stifling. More bodies were writhing on the floor next to him. They reeked of sweat and piss and now blood as well. It was beginning to trickle along in little rivulets, finding a way through the crowd, down always down to be soaked up by the hungry, shifting sands. Some of it – not James' own – ran past his face. He felt it touch him, still warm and sticky. He gagged in revulsion.

A break in the panic allowed him to right himself. The Manticore had barely moved. Its tail lashed out with frightening reach, again and again. A few bodies lay twitching or motionless at its feet already. James couldn't see his father, or Lily or Al. He was being carried away from the fight by the flow of people. They picked him up, dragging him like as stick on a wild tide. Glimpses he caught were of unfamiliar faces, contorted in terror or pain. Screams assaulted his ear drums. Every so often the sound was punctuated by the deep, bas roar of the Manticore. In pain or triumph, James knew not. He desperately hoped the former.

He broke free. Saw a flash of silver hair above the crowd, tall and willowy, buffeted worse than he was. _Cat._ She and Luna were trapped, nearly within reach of the Manticore. The crowd was forming a writhing, knotted barrier that they were backed up against. James scrambled up the seats, desperately. Above the crowds the air was clearer. He kept his eyes locked on Cat's silvery hair. His panic rose with every second. Like there was a clock ticking, this hiss of sand trickling through an hourglass. A wizard fell back beneath the onslaught of the Manticore, and a gap appeared in the defences. Trainers and security alike remained achingly distant.

Suddenly, a familiar face in the sea of strangers. Unexpected, but for once, not unwelcome. The Lenders.

'Heath- Ambrose! You've got to help me. The Manticore- Cat- my friends!'

'Love to stay and pet the nice kitty, Potter, but this is as much as we'd bargained for.' Heath said.

'A little more, I'd wager,' Ambrose added.

'Aye. Your friend was never part of the plan. Take this, and we'll be seeing you.'

James caught something heavy and round in his hand. When he looked back up, both were gone.

Luna and Cat were both trapped now, pinned against the crowd which moved at a snail's pace. The Manticore prepared to lunge. Unthinking, James lobbed the object towards it, unsure what he expected.

It certainly wasn't the massive, concussive blast that knocked everything within a ten foot radius flat onto its backside. Screams intensified. Bodies flew, careening through the air. The Manticore was tossed up against the barrier, dazed, for a moment. James, unthinking of the danger, rushed in towards his friend.

'James!' Cat screamed, as he half-collided with her and Luna both. 'I can See it. It's red, all red. Everything it does. Over and over I can't, I can't…' she trailed off, wailing plaintively. Her eyes were a milky grey, sightless.

'Run, loves,' Luna urged them. Pushing them ahead, through a gap in the dazed crowd. James stumbled forwards, guiding Cat. Back to the elbows and screams and curses. Something grabbed him again. He bucked and fought it. Yelled in rage as it dragged him forwards. He clutched Cat as tightly as he could. His arms ached. Her body shook. For a moment, he was dragged under, and the close terror of before began to blossom. His own yells were added to the fray. But light, blessed light broke through.

'James, thank Merlin!'

'Dad! Cat- Luna! Help!'

He couldn't form full sentences. He could barely breathe. Cat's shaking had turned to convulsions now. Her eyes remained blank and unstaring. He panicked that she'd been stung. Fleeing bodies around them knocked them apart momentarily. James desperately leaped back to her. He knew only that he mustn't break contact.

Far below, Luna hadn't made it through again. The Manticore had regained its senses and let out a roar that shook the entire mountain. The Trainers were finally arriving, but their spells bounced off its hide, little more than thrown pebbles. As it raised its sting in Luna's direction, James' blood chilled.

 _Red day._

' _SECTUMSEMPRA!'_

Harry Potter's voice bellowed out above the mayhem. The fleeing crowd stilled, cowed, for a moment. The jet of pale green light that shot forth from his wand looked hungry and eager. It shot across the heads of the crowd, the force of its passing buffeting those nearby. It severed clean through the tail of the Manticore, where all else had failed. Black blood fountained. Fury turned to pain as the beast was caught between attacking, and turning to protect its wounds. More spells rained down on it. Harry grabbed the children, and James felt the uncomfortable sensation of side-along Apparition.

Except this time, it was different. Ropes seemed to tangle around his arms and legs. They tried to snare him, to pull him back. He heard animal yelling, this time from his father. Their sense of movement slowed right down. Everywhere the ropes touched, they bit, icy and cold and numbing. James smelled blood and fear and sand. The arena. Harry's roar intensified, the ropes around him seemed to snap, and the five of them were collapsing on a wooden floor. A familiar floor. _Home._

A shriek sounded from nearby. James tried to look up. Who'd brought all this blood in? Mum was going to be furious. His mind was slow and groggy. Cat still shook. _Don't let go, don't let go._ He told himself over again.

'Anti-apparition wards,' he heard Harry growl. 'This wasn't an accident. I have to go back. Luna.'

A crack sounded, louder than James had ever heard before, and the next he knew the comforting presence of his mother was there, softly crooning, her wand gliding over all of them, taking away the cold, stinging remnants of the ropes' touch, guiding the endless flow of blood back into the bodies of the injured students.

As she touched his cheek lovingly, James finally gave up, and let the blackness that had been lurking swallow him whole.


	18. Golden Eyes & A Tear-Streaked Gaze

'So you just sort of, threw it at the Manticore?'

'Well, yea, I guess.'

'And did you hit it?'

'Right on the nose.'

' _That's_ that Chaser accuracy paying off.'

'Such a better position that Seeker.'

Fred was quizzing James for – he had counted – the thirteenth time that day, about the debacle at Beauxbatons. It was the forty-third time all told, over the week that had passed since the incident.

'Don't let Mansfield hear you say that,' Tristan added. 'She'll tie you up and… hey, hold on. That might not be so bad.'

The chaos of Herbology, and tending to their disgusting _Sanocultus_ plants gave the group all the cover they needed to discuss the events. Not that James was overly keen to relive them yet again. It said something that he'd rather concentrate on stroking the grotesque appendages of his plant as an excuse to skip the conversation. He still hadn't fully recovered from the panic that being half-trampled beneath a fleeing crowd had brought on.

'Ten minutes to go!' Professor Longbottom called out to the class. He was grinning ear to ear – he'd spent the entire first half of the lesson telling them about the first batch of _Sanocultus_ Sap that had been sent to St. Mungo's to help the Infected. The pride and excitement in his voice had almost made James look fondly on the grossly pulsating little devils. Almost.

'And you're _sure_ it wasn't a Weasley's product?' Fred asked. Again.

'Never mind that, I still can't believe Renshaw _hugged_ you,' Tristan cut in.

'It was terrifying,' James said seriously. 'I didn't know what was happening. She was _furious_ though. Surprised she didn't go over and turn the lot of them into Dragon food on the spot.'

'Then we'd have an all-out international war on our hands,' Clip cautioned.

'We bloody near almost do.' Tristan was looking thoughtfully up towards the castle, oblivious to the Sap overflowing from his vial and starting to run down his arm.

'And Renshaw told you not to tell anyone your dad knows it was on purpose?'

'Made us all swear up and down we'd not tell a soul.'

'So naturally, you came straight to us.'

James' smile was only a touch sheepish. He shrugged it off in a what-was-I-to-do gesture of innocence.

'It was probably all arranged by the Ministry,' Cat chimed in from where she sat across the table. She had been picking up the boys' slack for the lesson, and currently had one _Sanocultus_ in each hand, gently stroking and drawing forth a steady stream of the precious Sap. Tristan looked on wide-eyed, clearly impressed. 'The Minister has been wanting Mummy gone for years now. And your father as well, James. He knows that they're the only ones who can stop the Vampire-Steelheart conspiracy.'

James held up a hand to quiet the boys' impending protests. Ever since the Second Task, and Cat's eerie premonition, he'd been a little more open to listening to some of her far-out theories.

'It's quite obvious,' she stated matter-of-factly. 'The Ministry are harvesting witches and wizards to turn into Steelhearts, with the help of the Vampires.'

'But in first year, you said the Vampires _were_ the Steelhearts,' Fred countered.

'They were, at first. But their numbers were small. And they couldn't make more Vampires without risking being exposed and exterminated. Steelhearts, on the other hand, can be made from anyone. The Vampires have been capturing them, all around Eastern Europe and the Baltic States, people go missing, and then turn up later, either dead or Severed.'

'Severed?'

'Cut from their magic. Forever. Durmstrang used to practice it, as a punishment in place of Dementors. It's said to drive someone equally insane. They've outlawed it, but it's making a comeback. They use the captured person's magic to make the Steelhearts, you see? Now that Harry is gone from the Aurors, it's _them_ who are being secretly turned into Vampires, and _then_ they're turned into Steelhearts by sacrificing the witches or wizards that have been captured.'

'Ri-ight.'

'Dad did say the Department of Mysteries was stealing a lot of his Aurors for Steelheart training,' James offered, though he didn't press the issue. This latest theory might be a bridge too far, even for Cat.

After the lesson, the boys split off from the rest of the students. They ushered James out of earshot of the crowds, huddled onto a cramped bench seat in a shadowy alcove of a courtyard. The early February wind cut through robes like daggers, ensuring that they'd be unlikely to run into any unplanned company out here in the cold.

'So while you were away being assassinated, some of us here were hard at work,' Tristan grinned, fishing around clumsily in his pocket with gloved fingers. He produced a crumpled, folded sheet of parchment which he pressed into James' outstretched palm.

'Beauxbatons Academy of Magic was founded in the year 1267. Her leadership has been peppered with several notable figures…' James trailed off. 'You wrote an essay on Beauxbatons? Are you feeling ok?'

'No, you tit,' Tristan rolled his eyes. 'It's the next clue. For the…' he lowered his voice to a whisper, making doubly sure nobody was about. 'The _book.'_

' _Oh.'_ James scanned the parchment, it was hastily scrawled in Tristan's messy hand. Parts were illegible, but what he could make out was incredibly dry and boring.

'The actual clue was a commemorative plaque hanging in the trophy room. I wrote it down while we were there.'

'You wrote this,' James queried.

'Yep.'

'You, who double-spaces his lines and writes _massive_ on a six-inch Herbology essay because you can't be bothered doing any more.'

'Mate, this isn't twigs and berries. This is _sacred._ This is my purpose in life, my calling. It's my-'

'We get it!' James and Fred chorused.

'So we've got the Hogwarts kitchens, and Beauxbatons' faculty. I still don't feel any closer to solving this.'

'There was another note, another meeting,' Fred added. 'You should have seen Tristan's face light up. Whoever this girl, I reckon she's giving out more than information.'

'What _girl?'_

The four boys all jumped clean off their seat at the new voice. Clip went so far as to give an audible yelp of fright.

'C-Chloe,' Tristan stammered, off-guard. 'I didn't expect to see you again. Like, ever.'

Chloe Swann had appeared behind them, looking over Tristan and James' shoulders at the parchment they were reading. James pointedly folded it away.

Chloe's short, blonde hair was mussed and wind-teased. Her cheeks were bright red, highlighting the scattering of freckles across her cheeks. Her wide, brown eyes were watering slightly, and there was a few flecks of snow caught up in the collar of her Ravenclaw-blue jacket.

'Just how long have you been out here?' James asked.

'I knew you had Herbology, so I waited for you here.' She ignored James' presence entirely. She had eyes only for Tristan.

'Here? But this is nowhere near the way back to the castle.'

'Well, whenever you four get together away from the girls, you always hide away from some sort of secret meeting. I figured this spot was the most sheltered from the wind, so thought you might have come here.'

Fred was staring, goggled-eyed. 'That's a little-'

'Romantic, isn't it!' Chloe butted in, rubbing her cheek up against Tristan's endearingly. James thought he did well not to visibly flinch. Then again, maybe he was enjoying it.

'Do you do this often? James asked. 'This, er…'

Fred piped up. 'Stal-'

'Thoughtful gestures,' Tristan overrode him. 'These very… thoughtful gestures.'

'Oh, sometimes I get them wrong. But I'm never far off.'

'I believe that.'

Chloe tittered excitedly. 'Oh, you're so silly. Anyway boys, we must be off. Tristan promised me a tour of the Lake. We'll be seeing you.'

Tristan's face was a little pleading as Chloe yanked him bodily up off the seat and out into the chilling wind.

'Please tell me I'm not the only one who thinks that's not normal,' Clip said, stunned.

'About as normal as a friendly Skrewt, mate,' James said.

'About as dangerous, too.' Fred added.

They all nodded in agreement with that.

Prior to the events of the Second Task, the students of Beauxbatons had been more frosty and aloof than usual throughout the halls of Hogwarts. They had taken on their Head's view, that the death of one of their prized Abraxans on Hogwarts soil was the fault of everyone who called this castle home. They had doled out blame with enthusiasm. The lack of overt retribution had built up the ill-will, like a shaken bottle of Butterbeer, waiting for the cork to pop.

It was appalling to see their reaction following the escaped Manticore, James thought. Seven fatalities, all of them either Hogwarts affiliates or British citizens. The segregated seating at the event had meant that they were the easiest targets for the enraged beast. Archie MacDougal was still in St Mungo's. Luckily, he'd escaped a proper sting, thanks to his dragonhide boots. It looked like they'd be able to save his legs. Luna had been under care for a full three days after the event. Evidently, the majority of the Beauxbatons student body saw _this_ as adequate restitution.

The school held a commemorative ceremony for those fallen. Georgia and Tennyson Braithwaite had lost a favourite Aunt in the tragedy, and Leah Ridley, a great-grandmother. The whole school dressed in black and gathered in the Great Hall. Driving sleet hammered into the windows outside. The clouds of the enchanted ceiling above were a dull, slate-grey. A loose window pane rattled under fierce winds. Nature itself, was railing against the injustice of it all.

The gathering of over a thousand students in the room left the air heavy and close. Most were sweating, in contrast to the frightful weather without. Even Durmstrang had mostly managed to cobble together their blackest robes for the occasion. Pot-Head hovered next to Cat, a little uncertain. He looked positively outlandish in a smart set of robes and not a single streak of mud across his entire person.

The Beauxbatons students, however, stayed in a small knot near the back of the room. They whispered through most of the ceremony. Soon, half of the room was shooting them dark looks over their shoulders. The air of smug superiority and blatant indifference that emanated from them just reeked with a petty _I told you so._ Their Head Teacher stood among the group. As far away from Renshaw as possible, whilst still being in the same room. The students all took their cues from him.

Whatever cracks were already riven through the foundations of the Hogwarts-Beauxbatons friendship, he was doing his best to drive a wedge into them, as deep as he could manage. James thought back to a statement his father often quoted, that seemed to fit the occasion: _"We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided."_

Following the ceremony, James sought to be alone. There was something hollow and un-personal about a procession of people who weren't there getting up and talking about an event that they had nothing to do with. To James, their words echoed around the Great Hall, just empty noises. None of it portrayed the panic, the harrowing, fearful minutes that seemed to stretch for hours. The screams and terror and the blood. There was so much more blood than he could have imagined.

It had seemed forced, and James felt bad for Leah and Georgia and Ten for that. They deserved better. Their families deserved better.

He found his feet leading him upwards, away from the crowds of students and parents milling about in the Great Hall, making pleasant small-talk and trying to tie themselves to those affected, as if they needed to justify their own presence there. As if there were some kind of competition running, a challenge to see who was most intimately tied to those who had lost, and so, in turn, who also possessed the right to grieve most heavily. He heard people whom he _knew_ had never so much as spoken to Leah claiming that they were lifelong friends. It left a sour taste in his mouth, and he wanted away from all of it.

He found himself making his way to the Waterfall Room on the sixth floor. It was out of the way, it was a secret, and most importantly, it was going to be empty.

Or so he thought.

'Hello James Potter.'

'You really need a better opening line.'

Rain was sitting in one of the two chairs that were the only furniture in the room, facing the door as if she'd been waiting for someone. Probably him. Her formal black dress indicated she'd been at the ceremony. For once, the large sapphire amulet she wore as a protection to her deathly ailment was on display. It sat proud upon her chest, glowing softly in the gloom, adding a ghostly pale blue cast to the light of the room.

James tentatively took the other chair.

'I'd been hoping to spend this time alone.'

She turned to face him. With spine straight and shoulders back, her perfect posture made James feel as if he were slouching. 'Then you'd have hidden away in your dormitory, instead of coming here.'

'I wanted some fresh air.'

'Then you'd have gone to the Quidditch Pitch.'

'In this weather?'

She smiled slowly, looking up at him through her lashes. She was never quite meeting his gaze. Which suited him, he wasn't up to dealing with nausea on top of everything else. He started, for a moment, was that a lambent glow? Were her eyes shining _golden?_ 'It's never stopped you before.'

He huffed in frustration. She was right, and it was irritating him. 'So your brilliant Ravenclaw brain figured out that I'd be here, did it?'

Her grin was answer enough. She leaned in towards him, her gaze fixed somewhere about his chest. It seemed her eyes were a light source of themselves, but she let a curtain of hair fall down across her face, blocking James' view.

If he headed up to the dormitory now, he might be able to grab his Cloak and sneak off down to the pitch, after all. 'Why so desperate to meet me alone? You've been avoiding me lately.'

'You've been mistrusting, lately.'

'You've been hiding things, lately.'

A flicker of something danced across Rain's shadowed visage. She turned away from James for a moment, to study the nearest wall. The naked rock was left exposed; rugged and bare and uneven. The water outside was frozen, so only a trickle flowed down it, enough to leave a faint film of moisture which caught the cool blue glow of the amulet. It shone against the dull backdrop like the opening of a gateway to another world.

'We all have our secrets,' Rain whispered to the wall.

'Secrets? I've bled for your secrets. My- _our_ friends have nearly died for your secrets.'

When she turned to face him this time, she stared unabashedly into his eyes. Where her own had been, there was nothing but two pits of glowing gold, shining softly. 'Exactly.'

The glowing orbs stirred a memory from not so long ago, and a similar difficult conversation. James abruptly changed tack.

'It was a shame Leah's mother wasn't able to make it to the ceremony today.'

'Wha- oh, yes. A shame.' Rain broke the eye contact, staring down at her hands folded in her lap. One finger twitched the barest millimetre. For her, that amounted to an all-out nervous wringing.

'Have I told you that my father thinks the attack was targeted? Perhaps at us. At him.'

'An understandable conceit.'

'It's unsettling, to think that someone is hunting you.'

Rain chuckled softly. It was low and warm and purring, and stirred James' hackles. 'Believe me, James Potter. I know.'

'Someone is hunting you? At this moment?'

He started when she stood up, but she merely closed the two strides between them, taking both of his hands in hers and kneeling before him. This time when she looked up, her eyes were returning, slowly, to their familiar sea green, her irises intact once more. Her smile was wide, but it reached no further than her lips, as she whispered in a voice just for him. 'Tirelessly.'

They parted ways soon after. James excused himself claiming exhaustion, and an impending Quidditch match against Durmstrang as his excuse. He nearly tripped over the broad steps of the Grand Staircase three times on the way to the dormitory, and failed the Password twice before the Fat Lady let him in out of pity.

The last time Rain's eyes had glowed golden had been when they'd tussled deep within the dungeons. When James could have sworn he smelled the presence of the Infected. Leah's mother _had_ been at the ceremony that evening. She'd spoken for fifteen minutes, tear-choked and forlorn. Rain had expected to meet James, and so dressed accordingly, but _she hadn't been at the ceremony at all._ She'd been down in the dungeons, when the whole school wasn't looking, doing…

James had to find out what. Because Rain was lying to him. To all of them.

His suspicions remained his own, however, over the course of the next week. He'd seen how is friends reacted. He didn't want to go to them until he had actual proof. Otherwise, they'd continue to laugh him off.

Other things arose to distract him, such as the Quidditch match against Durmstrang that had become a must-win, if they hoped to remain in the race. Beauxbatons already had two wins, Hogwarts and Durmstrang both languished at the bottom of the table with a defeat apiece. This match could put them in striking distance of the top spot. James had been eyeing Preston Lynch askance from across every classroom they shared in the days leading up to the game. He'd received no shortage of sullen, dirty looks in return, but thankfully no wands were drawn, no sparring words uttered.

Finally, with the fading of February, and what all around the castle hoped was the last of the truly awful weather, the match day arrived.

The entire school was ready for it. The corridors were abuzz as James made his way to breakfast. The Great Hall was a wash of bland, muted colours. Blacks for the Hogwarts faithful, drab greys and mottled browns for their Durmstrang counterparts. Professor Meadows had even gone so far as to dye her hair black for the occasion. A look that James found rather unsettling in place of her usual shocking blonde.

The air was primed and poised. The sound of laughter and friendly shots crackled through the room. Small pockets of students shared anecdotes or predictions. They moved around the room, between the house tables, between the schools, colliding and mingling with other groups, celebrating and acknowledging friends and rivals alike. After the grim events of the second task, and the tightly wound pressure of increasing scrutiny from Beauxbatons, Hogwarts, it seemed, was eager to blow off some steam.

'May your brooms fail, and your Quaffles all miss,' Pot-Head grinned as James and Fred took a seat. Cat was wearing a garish stuffed, black dragon atop her head, currently curled up and deep in sleep. She'd obviously made one for Pot-Head as well, in an attempt to sway his allegiances. It appeared as if he'd swiftly bastardised it to have it resembled the twinned golden eagles of Durmstrang. A handful of feathers had been crudely stuck on with a lacklustre Sticking Charm, and what appeared to be a yellow, stuffed sock was evidently trying to pass off as the second head.

'You two deserve each other, you know that?' Fred replied, shaking his head. Both flushed and looked a little uncomfortable, at that.

The sky outside was bright and clear. Bitterly cold, but otherwise perfect conditions. Down in the changing rooms, James warmed his hands up in a thick pair of fingerless gloves. He adjusted the quilting on his Chaser's glove – the gift his friends had given him in first-year. It offered a modicum of warmth. Ava Adams was pacing the centre of the room, still in her pink fluffy slippers, with her hands tucked up into her armpits.

'What a perfect morning!' she chirped, Miss Positive, Fred called her. Positively grating, at times. 'I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be!'

'How about bed?' grumbled Odette.

'Mmm,' James mumbled in agreement.

'You two can do that on your own time,' Fred joked.

For once, Odette didn't have a sniping comment in reply. Completely out of character for her, she looked a right state. Her eyes were red and bore heavy, dark bags. Her hair was mussed and unkempt. No hint of lipstick or makeup. She was almost a different person.

Ava outlined their game plan. Little had changed from the first match. James was to play Enabler; she was to line up on the left wing; Preston on the right. Fred and Jen split the field down the long axis, Fred protecting Ava, Jen shadowing Lynch's flank.

James eyed Lynch. His black silk shirt bearing the golden Hogwarts crest seemed a little large on him, today. He was staring very pointedly at a spot between his toes. The hopes of their team, and possibly James' position on it, largely rested on how Lynch responded to their last meeting. Judging by the way he'd left, slapping James' had away instead of shaking it, things might not be such smooth flying out there today. James made a start to go and speak to him. Twice he half-stood, words trying to form on his lips, but melting away like ice in the sun every time. Their time for talking had passed.

It was actions now, which would seal their fate.

Theirs was a focused sort of silence, as names were called, and one by one the team shot out the open door and into the bright, crisp February air. James was last-but-one to leave. Only Odette trailed him.

'You alright?' he shot quickly.

'Eyes front,' she snapped.

His name was called, and the moment was gone. He shot into the air to the overwhelming noise that seemed to bounce around between the stands. Cheers and boos, screams and whistles all melded into one raging cacophony that held any message he desired to pluck from it. To each flier it was a different experience. For him, it was about the energy. The crackling magical feel in the air that no amount of spells could recreate. He drank it in, breathing deeply, raising his arms. He imagined the noise grew when he did. Whether this was true or not, did not matter. Not to him, not at that moment.

' _LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,'_ the commentary boomed out across the sea of noise. ' _LET THE MATCH… BEGIN!'_

Fourteen broomsticks shot into life. James' brand new Nimbus cut through the air like wildfire beneath him. With a couple of months' practice under his belt, he was beginning to come to terms with the hairline turning and the gut-wrenching acceleration. What he still lacked in instinct was made up for in the broom's responsive nature. He dove in fearlessly to grab the Quaffle, slipping coolly between a pair of Durmstrang Chasers, tearing off up the pitch before they could even turn on the spot.

He heard the commentator shout his name. Heard the pitch of the crowd noise change. From plain excitement to anticipation. He streaked past the defenders. A bludger came his way, but the shot was too slow. He felt like Raya Novak, the Durmstrang Triwizard Champion, the way he moved seemed a part of the wind, too fluid and seamless for the clumsy opposition to register.

He was wide open for the shot. He could sense the breath held, over a thousand throats closed up, tensed, ready to scream in agony or ecstasy. The shot rolled off his fingers – a Bohemian Backspinner – coming late out of his hand. It was a shot designed to drop rapidly, best used when shooting at the lower hoops, across the face of the goal. The Durmstrang Keeper hesitated for the barest of moments, the deliberate wobble in the Quaffle's trajectory had him uncertain whether the shot was meant for the centre hoop or the lower left. The hesitation was his undoing, and Hogwarts were on the board first, ten points to zero.

'Way to go, James!' Ava called. She rushed to him, clapped him on the shoulder. 'Now _that's_ how to fly! Let's go team!'

James pumped his fist, enjoying the moment. Lynch, out on his right-hand wing, was silent, stoic. His eyes were fixed on the Quaffle, and the Durmstrang Chasers readying to restart play. Emotionless.

Both teams traded goals back and forth for the first half-hour of the match. Durmstrang's strength lay in their teamwork. Where the Hogwarts students had flown together for only a handful of months, their opposition looked to have had years of experience together. Their passes were instinctive, their cooperation flawless. The game became an arm wrestle – a back and forth that captured the rapt attention of the onlookers.

' _AND POTTER HAS MADE A STUNNING INTERCEPT! DROPPING BACK TO SAVE A CERTAIN GOAL WITH HIS FINGERTIPS!'_

At full stretch, James was straining to keep a grip on the Quaffle he had just caught. He performed an acrobatic backwards somersault to right himself. The gasps and " _oohs"_ from the crowd were the wind that filled his sails, and a bark of laughter escaped his lips as he sloth-grip-rolled beneath the clutches of a grasping defender. A wave of cheers carried him down the pitch. He had Lynch free on his right, a perfect scoring opportunity.

Lynch was yet to get off the mark. He'd taken one shot, and had it saved. James and Ava had each scored twice. It wasn't malicious, James told himself, merely game flow. Durmstrang's defender on that flank was stronger. The opportunities were richer on the other side.

He'd seen it too, Lynch had. His eyes were lighting up. He slid into perfect position, swinging wide around a well-placed Bludger, making the crowd gasp as he brushed gently up against the banners attached to one of the stands.

 _Pass it._

James paused. If he veered hard left, he might be able to toss the Quaffle up, over the last defender, and Dionysus Dive the shot into the hoops.

 _Pass. It._

It was the percentage play, the pass. Safe, almost certain to give them a score. But he'd been flying so well today. He was red-hot. The crowd was loving his every move. His new broom had him feeling invincible. He'd never managed a Dionysus Dive score before, but today could be the day…

Lynch was beginning to falter. Staring at him now, incredulous. The perfect time to pass had come and gone. His eagerness began to morph into anger. In a split second, James saw everything that he had been working towards crash to the earth, fifty feet below. He saw Odette, mad with rage. His team, trudging back to the lockers after another bitter defeat. He saw himself watching the matches from his room, too ashamed to enter the stadium, living in a self-imposed purgatory brought on by no hand but his own.

James leant in to make the pass.

The Quaffle sailed high, but not high enough. The last defender clipped it with his outstretched arms. The path was wobbly and flat. Lynch lunged at it, caught it and fumbled, having to chase after the Quaffle as it sailed towards the turf. Two more Durmstrang Chasers scrambled back in defence, and by the time Lynch was able to shoot, it was easily saved. James felt the blossoming feeling that had been growing in his chest deflate and settle, heavily somewhere below his navel.

'What was that, Potter?' Lynch growled between gritted teeth. He wheeled his broomstick over to face James.

' _IT LOOKS LIKE THE FABLED POTTER-LYNCH RIVALRY IS STILL A-KICKING, FOLKS! LENDERS NOW TAKING BETS ON WHO'LL DRAW THEIR WAND FIRST!'_

For the first time, James heard some boos coming through the crowd noise. He sat, stunned. Lynch was glaring expectantly, his face contorted in an angry snarl.

'Sorry, mate.' James ground out. The words seemed almost painful to utter to Preston Lynch. _This is bigger than us,_ he kept repeating. The mantra that Odette had drilled into him. His pride was bitter and sharp to swallow. 'My fault, was too slow on the pass.'

Lynch's eyes bulged for a moment. James could see the grip on his broom handle tense and relax, and tense up again. Then he nodded, wordlessly. He spun back to his position, and James let out an audible sigh of relief.

'Better luck next time, James!' Ava called out.

Durmstrang scored off their next possession. The Chaser on Lynch's flank out-flew him with a beautiful manoeuvre just over the heads of the gasping crowd to get free and score. It was the Grey's first lead of the game, fifty points to forty. James waited for Lynch to blow up, this would be his fault again somehow. He could just see it.

But the tirade never came. Lynch slapped his chest once. Indicating it was his fault. James was so shocked, he almost clean dropped his next pass from Ava.

For James, at least, that had been something of a show of faith, from Lynch. A return gesture that he, too, would try and make this work. That maybe, just maybe, the pair could meet somewhere in that scary, uncertain place called middle ground.

He passed to Lynch more often. He'd been lying to himself in saying that it was the game flow keeping the Quaffle out of his hands. Lynch was open at least as often as Ava was. The pair linked up for two quick goals, stealing back the lead. After the second, which James had set up with a beautiful Siberian Sidearm pass through the tiniest of windows, Lynch turned to him and gave what may have been an appreciative nod. Though it could have also been a sneeze. James would likely never know.

' _POTTER TO LYNCH AGAIN! ADAMS IS GOING TO START FEELING LEFT OUT OF THIS THREESOME- OUCH! Sorry Professor-'_

Two goals soon became four, and Hogwarts eked out the narrowest of leads. Each time, it was with businesslike rigor that the pair acknowledged each other in the air. Perfectly-calculated nods, a pointedly aloof wave. Once, James ventured as far as offering Lynch a stilted, 'nice one.' Following a particularly well-placed shot.

It was strange, and it was uncomfortable, but they were winning, and so James bit back hard on all of his reservations. _It's bigger than us._

He was the first to see the Snitch, as he was looping high ready to catch a pass. It popped up nearly atop his very nose. He let out a strangled yelp, waving frantically for Odette, but her back was turned. The Quaffle meant for him sailed happily on past, right into the arms of a Durmstrang Chaser. Their Seeker had seized the opportunity. He tore off towards the Snitch as it dove straight down, as if in fright.

'Fred, now!' James roared, gesturing frantically. Odette had finally seen the Snitch, but she was a good half-second back on her counterpart.

Fred located the nearest Bludger, a good six feet away from his position. He appeared to almost kick free of his broom, stretching out, fifty feet above the ground, to connect. His dive left him hanging, dangling upside down by the strength of a single foot. He dropped his bat, swinging his arms wildly to regain his seat.

But his shot had sung true, and it caused the Durmstrang Seeker to deviate, enough for Odette to draw level. And if Odette was level, it was never an even battle. She managed to slip an elbow up under the Durmstrang Seeker's guard, right at the same time as she darted her free hand out to catch the Snitch. Momentarily dazed, her opponent offered no competition. A pair of golden wings fluttered feebly between Odette's fingers. Hogwarts had won their first match.

James rushed to Fred. Ava rushed to Fred. Finn Wilder and Jen Redfern joined in and the rescue mission became a great, spinning, celebratory hug, with the whole lot of them rotating their way slowly down to the turf, singing and laughing and whooping together. The crowd had got what they wanted – a thrilling finish to a close game – over an hour's worth of nervous energy burst forth in resolution, be it joyous or despondent. High above, Odette basked in the glory, performing her signature backflip stood atop her broom at halfway. The poor commentator sounded as if he were being strangled by Professor Longbottom after making a rather lewd remark about Odette's knickers.

When their group hit the turf, James felt them flinch, the embrace fragment in a hurry. He saw the reason straight away. Lynch was approaching. He looked like he was trying to swallow some of Hagrid's cooking. Or a large, whole toad. As if there was much of a difference.

' _HOLD UP NOW!'_ It appeared the commentator had survived. ' _LYNCH IS APPROACHING POTTER DOWN NEAR MIDFIELD. CAST YOUR BETS OVER WHO STRIKES FIRST!'_

The pair shared a level gaze for a long moment. James ran a hand through his hair uncomfortably. A thin sheen of sweat came away, cooling him quickly in the chilly air. Lynch opened and closed his mouth a few times. James raised his eyebrows. Finally, after much shuffling of feet and readjusting of buttons, Lynch held out his hand. That was all. The time for talking had passed. It was their actions that needed to seal the accord. And they had. This was the final one seeking completion before the mending could truly begin.

James tried his best to look stoic as he took the proffered hand. The tiniest of smiles may have slipped out. For all he knew, Lynch could have been doing the same. Or he'd just stood on a tack. But there was no time to make certain, as the rest of the team swamped them in a messy, screaming pile, bringing the group down to the turf, all shaking with laughter together.

Well, _almost_ all of the team.

Odette was now at ground level, on the farthest side of the pitch. She was face-to-face with a blue-clad figure. No prizes for guessing who.

' _DON'T LEAVE JUST YET, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. THE SHOW HAS ONLY JUST BEGUN! MANSFIELD AND CLAVET APPEAR TO BE ENGANGED IN A VERY PUBLIC DISPLAY OF NON-AFFECTION!'_

As their words began to drift piecemeal over to where James stood, he felt the knot in his stomach unclenching, all of a sudden.

'-not _bad,_ Mon Cherie, but I could have finished a Transfiguration essay in the time it took you to react.'

'Do you not _see_ this little golden fucker in my hand?!' Odette yelled back. 'Or should I jam it up your backside for you. You seem to like-'

' _SOMEBODY GRAB A FIRST YEAR AND COVER THEIR EARS, THIS JUST GOT ADULT-RATED, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!'_

'Shut _up!'_ Odette screamed up at the stands.

'This eez your problem,' Loyal said, gesturing at the scene building around them. 'You cannot control your temper. Like a little child who has lost her toy. If you want to fly like me, you must-'

 _Slap!_

James saw it a half-second before he heard it. It was the most satisfying thing he'd witnessed all day, _including_ their Quidditch victory.

' _I'VE GOT A GALLEON ON MANSFIELD, THIS ONE LOOKS LIKE IT'S GOING TO THE DEATH! OW- ouch, professor, that's my eye-!'_

'Fly- like- you?' Odette's rage was evident in the brittleness of her voice. James hadn't noticed, but he'd closed half the distance toward them. Loyal was in trouble now.

'With much practice, I'm sure you can.' Loyal was rubbing his cheek. His other hand must have been free to dig the massive whole he was currently finding himself in.

'Oh, that's it, that's _exactly_ what I want! To lumber around like I'm lugging a sack of bricks, catching my reflection in anything that shines, no wonder you're so good at looking for the Snitch.'

Loyal's face took on a mask of calm. James might have thought it was the look of a man about to deliver a killing blow, or marching to the gallows. Perhaps he was confusing the former with the latter.

'It doesn't matter how many of these you catch, your _Papa_ is never coming back,' he spat.

All around the stadium, the crowd gasped. Shocked that they could hear, James scowled up at them. He dipped his hand into his pocket and drew his wand, pointed it at the couple and yelled, _'Muffliato!'_

Groans sounded all around the stadium, a few boos drifted his way. Odette's and Loyal's fight continued, more animated than ever, but at least now they'd have some small modicum of privacy. It didn't appear as if they were ready to stop any time soon.

James followed the team, now a little more subdued, back into the locker. They dispersed after a few more half-hearted congratulations, and many a surreptitious look back out to the pitch. Odette hadn't yet re-entered.

He waited long after the others all cleared out. Odette would be back, he was certain. He didn't have a plan for her return, just that he figured she might want someone to talk to.

He didn't realise he'd fallen asleep in his vigil until the sound of the door closing brought him to his senses.

'Wha- oh, Odette. Hi. Oh, yea, _hi.'_

'What are you doing here, Potter.' She snapped. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Her cheeks were angry and red where she had clearly been scrubbing away tears. Her nose was red from the cold, and she was shivering uncontrollably. She must have walked halfway around the Lake by herself.

'I just- you know… making sure you're fine.'

'Well I am. So you can go now.' The fake smile she offered was so bitter and empty, so unlike her that it left him stunned a moment.

'I- well, I thought you might want to talk.'

'Talk?' she scoffed. 'And what, you can comfort me, take me into your arms, tell me how it is all going to be alright? Is that your clever plan? Very original, James. Well done. I'm in awe.'

'I have the whole school in my business every other week. Might be I know a bit about how it feels. Might be I could have helped, if you'd let me.'

A flicker of reprieve in her eyes, but the defensive walls remained intact. 'I've done my talking. Voice is hoarse from it. Or didn't you hear? Seemed like the whole school had front row seats.'

'Not to all of it,' James mumbled, and told her about the charm he'd cast.

'Oh. Well, thanks I guess.'

She sat down on the bench seat across the room from him. Her gaze was focused on the floor halfway between their feet. James felt a deep sadness in his chest, and a building hatred towards Loyal. Whatever he'd done, whatever he'd said in their little bubble had torn away all of the parts of Odette that made her Odette. This girl sitting across from him with slumped shoulders, tangled hair and watery eyes was little more than a feeble shadow of what she'd been only hours before. The fact that he was so able to hurt her made James' blood boil.

'We can get him back, if you'd like. Fred has this powder, that if you sprinkle it on food it'll-'

'No, James. It's fine.'

'I'm serious. Or I know how to turn his underwear into-'

'Honestly James, just drop it.' There was the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. 'Sometimes, I forget just how naïve you are.'

'Sometimes, so do I.'

There it was – an actual half-smile. It was feeble and tenuous, and barely reached her eyes, but it gave James a window to the _real_ Odette for the briefest of moments, and it sent waves of relief flooding through him.

'Well, it's been a long day,' she sighed, pushing herself upright. 'I should head off.'

'Right.'

With a lingering sigh, Odette pushed herself up off of her seat. Her hair hung free, obscuring most of her face. A few patches of mud and dirt streaked her robes and forearms. James spied a set of scuff marks across her knuckles. Hopefully from punching Loyal. She trudged slowly towards the exit, and he watched her go feeling a deep-seated sense of incompleteness at her passing.

'Wait, Odette.'

'What?'

James stood up and walked over to her. He shuffled from foot to foot for a moment, and ran a hand awkwardly through his hair, before deciding.

'Good job today. We won. _You_ won.' He held out his hand for her to shake it, deterred by what she'd said earlier, and feeling like an absolute tit for doing so.

Instead of taking it, Odette gave a long sigh and collapsed forwards, into his arms. He couldn't do anything but wrap them around her, holding her tightly as she followed suit, burying her head in his neck. He dared not move, he barely dared breathe, as her intimate proximity brought on a wave of conflicting sensations and emotions that he knew he oughtn't to be feeling at a time like this. The scent of her hair, and her perfume, and, underneath all of that, the soft gentle scent that must have been _her._ The way that when she breathed, the air blew down the front of his shirt and made him shiver. He tried desperately hard not to think about the way her breasts were pressing up against his chest.

When she started shaking, James' mind slowly began to reel itself in, and a sort of autopilot took over, rubbing her back as she sobbed into his shoulder. Her tears wet the neck of his shirt, soon soaking through to his skin. But it wasn't that which gave him the most discomfort, it was the phrase that she had started uttering, over and over again that caused a sinking feeling through his whole body.

'Never again. I hate them. No Quidditch players. Never again.'


	19. Interlude II

The bright, midday sun stung Harry Potter's eyes. It glared off the snow-capped peaks through which he trudged. His glasses seemed to make it worse, but without them he was hopeless. Even disguised, as he was. And so he squinted and grumbled and shaded his eyes constantly, all elbows and knees in yet another unfamiliar body, on another unfamiliar mission.

At least this time the countryside held some echoes of acquaintance. Far off to the south – to his right – several plumes of smoke rose up in tribute to the sky. They intertwined and were teased gently apart again by the wind. The misty, wintry breath of the village of Hogsmeade. Squat rooftops and snowy streets were hidden from sight by the face of a mountain.

He dared not look further, for he knew what lurked beyond. He'd seen the Castle upon arriving here. He'd wasted a good ten minutes gazing longingly at the ochre sandstone and snow-dusted rooftops. His family were there. His children. He could just make out the uppermost peaks of the Quidditch stands. A match was underway. His eldest would be playing. The fact alone tugged achingly at his chest. He could not make it there to watch, and be the proud father that his son deserved.

'C'mon,' growled his companion. 'Can't waste time.'

Harry nodded mutely. Sad, that the voice which had spoken was becoming familiar to him. The faux-voice of Dorian Alder. Captured, dead, or – if he had any sense – bolted to the farthest corner of the world. His true fate was a secret known only to a handful. To the majority of the Wizarding world, he was alive. He was marching his way down the country, gathering rare and mysterious ingredients that must surely be able to save them from the clutches of this Maleficent Malady that ravaged their ranks.

Harry let out a bitter bark of laughter, when he thought about the sodden pile of herbs that were trampled into the floor in the shack which hid Teddy Lupin.

Let it be enough that the world had hope, at least.

But it wasn't only about hope. For the only other soul – outside of their tiny knot of resistance – that could know about Alder was the one who had been behind his disappearance in the first place. Certainly the same shadowy figure behind the Infected. The one who had lain their magic on the site Harry and Teddy had visited in a remote corner of the Amazon rainforest, what now seemed like a lifetime ago.

The Desecrator.

And so they braved capture or worse by the Ministry and their Steelheart abominations. For acting, when their supposed protectors failed to do so. For daring to stand against the growing inertia and lethargy that was beginning to surpass indolence and – in Harry's eyes – dip a toe into that wicked pool of wilful, malevolent ignorance.

They did it for their own sort of hope. The hope of capturing the one behind all of it, of drawing them out into the open for a final, definitive showdown. Of ending all of it, and the threat it posed to Harry's family, once and for all. By using themselves as bait.

A slight misstep on the uneven ground, and a cascade of gravel showered down beneath Harry's foot. He watched it tumble, gathering momentum and size, down the sheer slope below. Scree and plants and debris, all dragged along, unwilling and unwitting, rushing headlong towards their abrupt demise, deep in the valley below, oblivious to the damage they wreaked on the way.

Once again, his laughter was bitter and cruel.

'I'll start thinking _you're_ the one losing it,' spoked Alder's voice. 'Laughing to yourself like that.'

'You're in good spirits, today,' Harry replied.

Teddy nodded. Neither of them voiced the words that hung over that sentence: _for now._

The knife-like ridge that they traversed began to flatten out, forming a shallow bowl near the top of one of the highest peaks. Muddy snow pooled in the centre of the depression, slowly melting under the glaring sun into a trickle of runoff that flowed away to the south. The grass around them was flattened and bent. Harry hoped merely from recent snow cover.

'Well, here we are,' he said, spreading his arms at the view unfolded before them.

'Reckon that hiker we saw a ways back would have noticed us?' Teddy asked.

'That was the plan, wasn't it?'

'Aye, I guess. Can see Hogwarts from here.'

'Don't, Teddy. Please. Let's just get out.'

'Alright-' he paused, succumbing to a massive coughing fit. Not a good sign. '-let's get digging.'

' _Defodio!'_

They both tore up great swathes of the soft green grass, breaking free the rich, black soil that was below. They carefully aimed and cast again and again. Methodically turning up the entire area. Teddy soon succumbed to overwhelming dizziness which drew him to his knees. This was how all of his episodes began. Their time was running out.

Despite the frosty mountain air, Harry began to sweat as he carved his wand back and forth, then bent to sift through the muddy remains for the glowing, glass-like pebbles that were their quarry. As he bent down to brush some dirt off their first such discovery, he heard Teddy abruptly cut off his coughing fit.

Instinctively, he rolled to his left. A great, smoking crater erupted where he had been standing moments earlier.

'He's here!' barked a foreign voice. 'Kill the spare!'

Harry made a dash to where Teddy was curled up on the ground, unable to stand. He was holding his head in his hands, clutching desperately at the hair of his temples. He rocked back and forth. His lips moved, but no sound was forthcoming.

All around the edges of the depression, figures rose, highlighted against the clear blue sky. Harry counted over ten of them. Steelhearts. An ambush.

Where Harry stood, in the middle of their flat, open paddock, offered next to no cover. It was criss-crossed with deep, muddy ditches that would foul his footing. Running was no longer an option. Spells rained down on him from all sides. He stood over Teddy, deflected and shielding as best he could, buckling beneath the barrage, unable to offer any counter. The hail was constant. There was no time to Apparate; he'd be hit in the process.

Chains and ropes and Stunners soon turned into Cutters and worse. One spell slipped through his guard, and opened a deep, bloody gash on his cheek. Blood flowed freely, trickling down his neck, into his mouth. He shoved Teddy into a nearby ditch. The best cover he could offer. He was writhing in pain now, clawing at his body, leaving bloody gashes all over.

' _Petramanus!'_ a shard of rock burst forth from the earth beneath them. A shattered, craggy fragment as wide as Harry could spread his arms, and thrice his height. He hunkered down beneath it. Finally, a modicum of shelter from the onslaught.

Finally able to press the attack, Harry took out two of the Steelhearts in quick succession. Their protracted screams as they fell from sight ended abruptly as they met the rocky ground far below. But more moved in to close the ranks. They were advancing, slowly. Step by step, spell by spell. His rocky backdrop was beginning to crack and shatter. Chips of stone pinged past his face, becoming dangerous shrapnel in their own right. An explosion near his head left his right ear a bloody, torn mess. Teddy was yelling now, but Harry, momentary deafened, couldn't hear a word.

He could feel himself beginning to tire. His arm was growing heavy. Blood leaked from a half dozen wounds. As a desperate attempt to buy a window of opportunity, Harry jerked his wand into the air, calling down a rain of lightning. Bolts lanced down from the open sky, gouging deep into the earth, leaving blackened, twisted scars. The concussions knocked several Steelhearts down. Two more were blasted back over the edge.

Now was their opportunity. He'd nearly halved the number of attackers. A window was open directly in front of them. He looked down to signal to Teddy. He was gone.

'Save me!' Teddy cried. He was pleading to the Steelhearts. He dashed across the uneven ground. His arms wheeled, frantic, deranged. He paused to vomit. 'Free me! Take me with you!' he cried, over and over. His footing was fouled again and again by ditches Harry had carved. A thick, snaking tangle of ropes leapt out of the nearest Steelheart's wand. It wrapped itself hungrily around Teddy's face and neck, knocking him bodily to the ground where he lay. The body of Dorian Alder that he wore remained motionless.

Harry bellowed, leaping out from his shelter towards Teddy. He sent great, shuddering ripples through the earth as he ran. Each footstep shook the mountaintop. Rippling cracks echoed across the nearby valleys. First one, then two more Steelhearts fell. His energy focused on the attack, he was unable to raise shields to protect himself. Spellfire licked and whipped his exposed back and sides. Gashes and welts blossomed. He stumbled twice. Muddy water flooded into his mouth and nostrils. It smeared across his glasses until Teddy was just a grey slash against a sea of green and brown. But he was all that mattered.

He was still breathing. Harry wrapped a hand around his shoulders. Dragged desperately. He shielded him with his own body. Something crashed into his arm with the force of a charging Hippogriff. He felt the bones shatter. The pain blinded him for a moment, but he was so close. One more step, and he lunged, diving over the edge, to freedom.

The momentary respite from spellfire was all Harry needed. Cut, burned and broken, he focused all of his energy into Apparition. The whole valley shook with the sound of his earth-shaking _crack!_

'Oh my god!'

A smothering presence. Harry smelled Ginny's scent, flashes of red hair. His vision swam for a moment, and slowly cleared. His kitchen floor was swimming in a sea of blood. _His_ blood. He tried to hug his wife, but only one arm responded to the call. A fragment of bone jutted out sickeningly from his left. His pinky finger was missing, splinched in their hasty flight.

Hermione burst in through the kitchen door. Harry shrugged off her and Ginny's attentions, ushering them towards Teddy. They pored over him, lips moving soundlessly, with soft, glowing light emanating from their wands. Ron shuffled in a moment later. He held two glasses of Firewhiskey in his hands.

'Bloody hell,' he cursed, putting them down and rushing to Harry.

'Oi!' Harry barked. Ron rolled his eyes and passed him a glass. He downed it in one. The flooding warmth that seeped out towards his extremities shoved away the numbing chill form the mountaintop. It brought with it a fresh wave of pain, but Ron was already working on the worst of the injuries. Knitting bone and mending skin. Years of patching one another up in the field had left the pair with no small skill at healing most wounds.

'Mate, there's something you need to know,' Ron whispered. Harry pushed him off the smaller cuts. They could wait. The girls were carting Teddy off towards one of the beds. His breathing had returned to normal. He followed them through into the lounge.

'Harry Potter! Hola amigo!'

Harry's wand was out in a flash, levelled at the chest of this stranger.

'Relajate, friend. We're on the same side.' The newcomer smiled. Shi nut-brown skin was creased and damaged by the sun. Heavy-lidded eyes and a broad mouth were both alight with a cocksure smile. He couldn't have been any older than Harry.

He flicked over a letter with the twitch of his wrist. It bore the unmistakeable imprint of L.A.W.W Holdings. Harry's mysterious employer. The one who was setting him these increasingly dangerous tasks. Harry didn't need to read it to know what it would say.

'It's March,' he growled. 'I was told I had until June.'

'Change of plans, amigo. Things are heating up. You and me. We go now.'

'I've never heard mention of you.' Harry still hadn't lowered his wand.

'Dani Verales. Just another loyal servant to the cause.'

Harry shot a sidelong glance at Ron, who shrugged.

'I did some digging. He's a ghost.'

'We all are, amigo. Or will be.'

'I'm not finished here.' Harry gestured to the door through which Teddy had been taken. 'There's one more leg. The most important.'

'Ginger has kindly agreed to take over for you.'

'Oi, you git!'

Harry shook his head. 'Too risky. He hasn't dealt with Teddy before.'

'I'll manage Harry,' Ron assured him. 'Look, if you go now, you'll be back before the kids finish school. They'll be safe while they're there. It's when they're out that we need to worry about. That's when they really need your protection.'

Harry sighed. Almost a year of anticipation and waiting for this moment. A year of planning and scheming was about to come into fruition. He looked over at Ron once again. The timing would be everything. 'I know. Let me say goodbye.'

Locked away in their bedroom, Ginny fussed over his wounds more than she ordinarily would. She lingered on every cut. Harry knew she was buying time, delaying his departure. He let her have the moments.

'How many times are you going to appear on the kitchen floor covered in blood,' she whispered into his chest. 'How many last minute escapes before your luck runs out, and you don't make it back?'

'We need to catch who is doing this. We need a safe world for our children.'

'And will they be safe if they grow up as orphans? Merlin Harry, Lily is only eleven. She needs us. She needs _you._ '

Harry stroked her hair softly. All pretence of tending his wounds was gone. The pair just held each other, alone in their room, willing the moment to stretch on forever.

'I'm going to end this,' he whispered. 'I'm going back to where it all started. After this, no more Infected. No more sickness, or fear. Teddy will come back to us. If it all goes to plan, no more Desecrator. Peace, again.'

'It doesn't always have to be us, you know. We don't always have to be the ones risking our lives. Anyone could do it.'

'Anyone could, but nobody will. As long as that holds true, it will _always_ be us. Always.'

Ginny's shoulders slumped. She gripped his tattered cloak in her fingers, so tightly. She didn't cry, but her breathing was soft and uncertain for a moment. When she finally pulled away, her eyes were dry.

'He slipped through our wards,' she said. 'Dani. Whoever sent him has somehow worked out a way through. I think it's safe to say your employer isn't quite as trusting as they make out to be.'

Harry nodded to himself as he packed his things. 'So they should be.'

Downstairs, Dani waited patiently. Ron was scowling at him from across the room, nursing a large glass of Firewhiskey once more.

'Vamos, amigo!' Dani clapped his hands. 'Many miles to cover, plenty of rainforest to trek through. Enjoy your last moments of cold. El Amazonas is _hot_ this time of year!'

Harry kissed Ginny one last time. He hugged Hermione; clasped hands with Ron. One last, lingering look back at those whom he loved, gathered together. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, he was gone. The echo of his Apparition was all that he left behind.


	20. Heavy Burdens & Persistent Precipitation

_Whump!_

Something heavy thumped down onto the Gryffindor house table directly in front of James. It spun his spoon, propped against the outside of his cereal bowl, sending an arc of cornflakes and milk tracking gracefully through the air and splattering no fewer than four people in the general vicinity. A jug of orange juice also fell victim, spilling its contents off the edge of the table and right into several waiting laps.

'Argh, _Fred,'_ wailed Rosalie Gardner. 'You got me all wet!'

A group of Beauxbatons students clustered together down the table looked on disapprovingly.

'Er, you might want to-' Tristan began

'Look, she's _dripping,'_ Leah Ridley added, pointing at the offending area, as Rosie had stood up to escape the continued flow.

'Not helping-'

'Quick, put your leg up here, and I'll sort you out,' Fred unwittingly replied. 'I can do it with my wand.'

'Here, let me tip this box of Wealsey's Fireworks onto this Fiendfyre.'

Rosie placed her hands on hips, offering an impressive pout. James watched slowly as her frown slowly morphed into a slow, cunning smile. This didn't look good.

'I think you owe me one, Fred Weasley,' she scolded.

Leah gasped, quickly cottoning on to her best friend's train of thought. 'It's partly James' fault, too!'

'What do you want,' the boys chorused, voices quavering with identical trepidation.

Rosie leaned forwards, a predatory gleam in her eyes. 'You owe us reparations-'

'Learn that word today, did you?' Cassie piped up.

Rosie paid her no heed.

'I think it's only fair that you take me to Hogsmeade next weekend as an apology.'

'And James has to take me, too!' Leah chimed in. 'Because- well, it was your fault too!'

'Erm, well I was-'

'Lot of homework-'

James forced out a quick coughing fit. 'Might be getting sick.'

'Come _on,_ boys. Don't be such babies. Tristan is planning on taking Chloe, aren't you Tristan?'

Judging by the way Tristan inhaled half a breakfast sausage, and had to have Cassie swiftly Summon it from where it was lodged tightly in his throat, Tristan had planning nothing of the sort.

'I actually, erm… was going to give this one a miss. Have some other business to attend to. Very pressing, you know. Schoolwork. Boring stuff.'

Rosie and Leah looked positively scandalized. 'But- but Chloe's been telling _everyone_ that you're going together.'

Leah's jaw dropped open, her pale green eyes slowly got rounder and rounder. She tugged Rosie's robe, and they immediately shuffled off, heads locked together in hushed conversation. So engrossed in the developing scandal, were they, that they bumped clean into Hagrid as he shuffled in through the entrance.

'Mental,' Fred breathed.

'If you two ever…' Cassie trailed off her warning.

Tristan was left looking a little uncomfortable. As if he were contemplating chasing the girls down. 'Hey, guys. D'you reckon I could ask a favour?'

'This can't be good,' James mumbled.

'It's just- I've got another-' and here, he leaned in close so that Cassie couldn't hear, '-another meeting about the Book that day.'

'Trading one lover for another?' Clips' smile was sly.

'Not you, too.' Tristan rolled his eyes. 'I was just hoping you guys could, y'know, look after her. Keep her entertained.'

'You're saying _entertained,_ yet I'm hearing _distracted,'_ Fred shot back.

'Whatever, just- this is important. The sanctity of the mission needs to be upheld. I cannot deviate from the Divine Path before me.'

'Alright, alright,' James held up his hands. 'We'll do it. Anything to stop another outburst of Righteous this and Holy that nonsense.'

'Cheers, lads. Hey, what _was_ that thing you dropped on the table, Fred?'

'It was a _Prophet,'_ Cassie replied, from where she was currently hidden deep behind it.

 _"Dorian Alder on Hogwarts' Doorstep"_ in big, block lettering took up almost the entire front page.

Rain arrived, resting her chin atop Cassie's head. James looked instinctively at her eyes, but they were back to their mundane sea-green. And focussed wholly on the article before her, flicking back and forth across the page at lightning pace.

'A rumoured sighting of the missing wizard by local resident Stoddard Richardson, while out tramping this week past was confirmed by a small company of Ministry Steelhearts sent to investigate,' Cassie read aloud. James couldn't see her face, but he knew the slight crinkling of her nose she'd be displaying – her ever-present reaction when faced with a new mystery.

'Investigate?' Cat scoffed. 'More like abduct him to their secret plot to take over Britain.'

'They were seen to be illegally harvesting Stardew Seedlings – a type of celestial glass that falls in heavy snowstorms on certain mountaintops around places of strong magical presence. When the Steelhearts sought to detain Mr. Alder for this illicit act, the ensuing duel between Alder's accomplice-stroke-bodyguard led to the tragic death of four of their number.'

'Nice one!' Cat unabashedly cheered.

'The mountains around here are a restricted area for that very reason, aren't they?' Clip asked, thoughtfully.

'What does he want with a bunch of Stardrop Saplings… or whatever?' James added.

Fred tried to fold over a corner of the _Prophet,_ so that he, too could read. Cassie snatched it back and damn near hissed at him, to boot. 'He's that healing bloke, isn't he? Healed all those diseased folk on that island up north a while back. He was right into his potions and healing before he went missing. Most people thought the Desecrator got him. Guess he was a step ahead.'

'And now he's what, gathering ingredients for a cure in secret?' James postulated.

'You might be right, James!' Cassie popped her head over the newspaper to stare, impressed.

'What's with the tone of surprise?'

'Well, why doesn't he go to the Ministry?' Clip asked. They could protect him, offer him sanctuary to work on a cure together.'

'The Ministry that is currently doing everything in its power to pretend the Desecrator doesn't exist?' Cat scolded haughtily. 'They'd never stand up to him.'

'And besides, he's just topped four of their pet Steelhearts,' Tristan added. 'He's probably not the favourite Pygmy Puff in the pen, at the moment.'

The group lapsed into momentary thoughtful silence. Rain's eyes finally stopped moving, and she straightened, readjusting Cassie's hair where she had mussed it. She was chewing softly on her lower lip and fingering the golden chain that led to her precious locket, about as nervous an uncharacteristic gesture from her as James had ever seen.

'We should help him,' Cat whispered conspiratorially, an eager gleam in her pale eyes.

'H-how…?' Cassie trailed off, distracted. Her nose was in full crinkle.

'Professor Longbottom's weird plants,' James said with excitement. 'He just said he shipped a batch to St Mungo's to help with the cure. Alder has been making his way south down the countryside all this time. What if Hogwarts is next? What if he'll try and steal one of the plants?'

'He could be camped out in the mountains somewhere right now,' Fred added, nodding. 'Trying to plot a way into the castle.'

'I bet Professor Longbottom would help us, too.' James was nodding now, trying to impart his own enthusiasm to that of the group. He could feel them slowly overcoming the inertia. Cogs were whirring behind Cassie's hazel eyes. Cat was shooting sidelong glances up at the staff table. Tristan was playing with a tiny gout of flame in his cereal bowl, but his face was thoughtful.

'James Potter, four Steelhearts have just been killed. These are dangerous people.' It was the first time Rain had spoken. She stood with her hand on Cassie's shoulder. James watched Cassie's conviction slowly dissipate into nothing.

'Professor Longbottom was the head of the DA. He cut the head off of a giant snake with a _sword._ He's not going to be scared of a few Steelhearts.'

'I simply counsel caution, James Potter. I'd sooner not lose you to this.'

James nodded slowly. He'd ask nonetheless. If he and Professor Longbottom could somehow smuggle the _Sanocultus_ plants out to Dorian Alder, they'd be lauded as heroes, for sure. There was only the small matter of a mountain range crawling with Steelhearts eager for revenge to navigate…

The group began to disperse, off to their first classes of the day. James found Rain waiting for him as he made to leave.

'What does your father make of all of this, James Potter?'

James shrugged. 'Not sure. He's away at the moment. For work. Has a new boss who's always sending him off around the countryside.'

It was a few steps before James realised Rain wasn't still with him. He turned to see her rooted in place near the foot of the Ravenclaw table.

'I- I see. Farewell, James Potter.'

She turned and practically fled towards the dungeons. Odd, because James knew for a fact that she had Charms first period.

'Bloody Hogsmeade.'

It was a phrase James found himself uttering a lot over the week leading up to the next trip. To think, it had been one of the things he'd looked forward to most at the beginning of the year. Now, he was stuck trying to juggle babysitting Tristan's not-girlfriend, and talking Fred out of running off with Rosalie, all the while secretly trying to get Odette Mansfield alone for long enough to ask if _she_ would go with him. At least then Chloe would be Fred's problem.

It was the girls' fault. That much, at least, was obvious. They were all equally mental. And James was almost positive that they all held secret weekly meetings, just to work out how best to mess with the boys' heads. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing Tristan would hurry up and find that damned book, so he could at least try and decipher some of their trickery.

On three separate occasions, he'd attempted to approach Odette, and each time there had been something to get in the way. Once, after class, she'd been ensconced within a thick gaggle of tittering friends. They all eyed James suspiciously as they passed. No way in hell was he going to try and wade through _that._

Twice, after Quidditch practice, she'd hurried out the door before he'd had the opportunity. Once, still clad in her dirty Quidditch training robes. Something she'd never be seen dead doing, usually.

Tristan suggested that maybe she was avoiding him on purpose.

James had almost agreed, and been about to give up, when he spied her entering the library alone, casting furtive glances back over her shoulder. James pushed himself up from his table, disturbing Cassie's teetering stack of notes and earning himself a very pointed _tut_ for his efforts.

He tracked Odette through progressively more and more obscure sections of the Library. The great shelves towering above them gradually became dustier and dustier. Fewer students were crammed into the dimly-lit study nooks. Muffled conversations faded into the background, until only the soft padding of their feet on the carpet remained.

'Odette, wait up,' James called, once he'd made certain nobody was around to watch.

She spun, alarmed. Her eyes went wide, and she frantically gestured him back.

'James, no-' she began.

But James wouldn't listen. He'd waited all week for this. Had days of pent-up nervous energy pushing him onwards. He felt it gathered behind him, lifting him, forcing the words from his mouth like foam at the head of a flooding river. There was no stopping it now.

'Odette, I was wondering, since you're not with Loyal any more…'

Here, only a moment's hesitation. A tiny dam in his way before he plunged headlong over the waterfall. It didn't hold him back for long.

'If you'd want to come to Hogsmeade this weekend. With me. Together.'

There, he'd said it. The dam had burst and he was over the edge. It felt freeing, somehow, that sensation of release. After playing out every possible scenario and way this could have gone wrong, with any number of onlookers standing around to laugh at his failure, this almost felt _easy._

She looked nice, James told himself. He was allowed to admit it now, surely. Perhaps it wasn't just the asking that gave him such a sense of relief, it may simply have been the fact that to look at her was no longer a sort of cruel, self-flagellation for his emotions. She wasn't pining over Loyal Clavet any longer. They'd hugged. She'd spent almost three years making what he now understood to be overt passes at him, until now falling on ears made deaf by naiveté.

But no longer.

She was silent for a while, as his words hung in the air. James' anticipation began to take on the slightest of nervous tinges.

'Oh, James, I wish you hadn't asked.'

Ah. _Well_.

'It's just, I- I've sort of arranged something. With, you know, another guy…'

'Right. That's cool.' James' voice sounded all wrong and high-pitched, even to his own ears. He felt himself taking a step backwards. Glad, at least, that no-one had been around to see him look like a fool.

'I'm sorry, James. I really- I mean, I do-'

'Hey, I get it. No Quidditch players, right? Don't worry, I hear you. Guess I'll, er, see you around.'

'James, wait-'

But he did no such thing. He turned and fled, trying to make his steps seem casually indifferent, but the hasty footfalls were heavy and mocking to his ears. A heavy sigh from Odette could just have been a stray gust through an open window.

* * *

Tristan MacMillan found himself dwelling on loyalty a lot, of late. Thanks, in no small part, to the ongoing frictions he was experiencing with his house. He'd punched a fourth year, the week just passed, for bullying one of the first-years. That night, at ease in the common room, he'd been apprehended by the Council of Elders – the student-led body that ruled Hufflepuff House in all but name – and held down at wand-point, forced to apologise and admit he wouldn't do such a thing again.

Through it all, the group of seventh years had preached over and over of the evils of using violence as a first option. Funny, how blinkered one could be when it came to irony.

He'd never betray his house. He lived their values every day – or, at least, his interpretation of them – but lately they had been asking rather a lot.

And thus he worried that their questioning of his motives had become not too far off the mark, after all.

It all boiled down to loyalty, in the end. It was the most important of all of the tenets of Hufflepuff house. Perhaps the most important value of _all_ of the houses. With the slow machinations of another war beginning to grind into place across the country, true loyalty was bound to perish. For in war, deception was so often the first weapon drawn. It will be then, among the clouds of uncertainty and fear, that the true, unwavering loyalty of the Hufflepuffs would be most valuable. Their steadfastness and faith to their friends would be beyond reproach, making of them the most valuable companions of all.

They may have been the only ones who truly appreciated its value. That it was earned, not with galleons, but with blood and tears. That it could never be sold or withheld or bartered, not without making of it a twisted, diseased thing that was useless to both parties.

He knew that Harry Potter could not have saved the world without the loyalty of his closest friends. If it came to it, James Potter would need nothing less. And so he had sworn to himself, over and again, that when the time came, he would be the first through the breach. That he would never falter, and when the dust settled, and everyone looked around, they'd know that things were only possible because of a true Hufflepuff's loyalty.

As he pushed open the door to the Boat House, and laid eyes upon the one who waited for him, he couldn't help but give a bitter little laugh. Was it all just whispering into the wind? Words spoken to help himself sleep at night? How could he hope to ride to a war alongside James Potter, if his loyalties were so easily challenged by something as trivial as this?

'Does my appearance amuse you?' the question was cold.

A steady drip of water chuckled back.

She'd made an effort. That much was clear. Their first meeting in daylight. Or rather, the first meeting with just the two of them. Lipstick and makeup. Dark mascara. An intricately braided hairstyle that flowed all the way down her back. It shone in the morning sun.

'Not even remotely.'

The space they were in was lit only by sunlight. Grimy windows filtered it through in a dreary haze. They both stood on the same wooden jetty, jutting out into the Lake, looking forlorn and abandoned outside the extent of the shed that birthed it. Water lapped softly at the pilings beneath them, sighing and shushing, sounding like a hundred spiteful whispers bearing the secret of their meeting.

A single boat sat moored to the dock, bobbing obediently on its short leash. A pair of oars sat ready across the seat.

'Not a chance,' he growled.

'Don't pout, Tristan. You know I hate it so.'

His footsteps dragged as he approached the small dinghy. She made him help her down, steadying her as she came onto uneven footing. He cut the contact between them as short as he dared. She gestured to the oars. It took all his willpower to simply bite down on his tongue and acquiesce. Bigger things were at stake, he had to tell himself.

They made gradual progress out along the length of the jetty. Tristan was seated backwards, heaving on the oars. Once out of the shed, a stiff breeze made progress slow and painful. It teased at the hair of his companion, tossing it about like autumn leaves on the wind. Eventually, he became glad for its cooling presence, as she seemed intent on circumnavigating the entire Lake.

'Have you missed me?' she eventually asked.

'Like I'd miss another hole in the head.' Tristan growled back through gritted teeth.

She gestured for them to pull into a sheltered bay, and Tristan gladly navigated towards it. He tossed the tinny anchor overboard and threw the oars down in disgust. Sweat made his shirt cling to his chest. Here, tucked away among the tall trees, not even the wind was present to cool him down.

'I like it,' she said, brazenly eyeing him up and down.

'You need help,' he muttered.

She smiled. Her eyes shone like gemstones in the sunlight. 'So here we are.'

'Where is _here,_ exactly?'

'Wherever. It doesn't matter. Our destination. I'm all yours for the whole day.'

'Not bloody likely. You'll give me the next parchment and I'm out of here. Sooner the better.'

'Come now, you know I like to'-

'Play with your food, I get it. But I've got promises to keep. Loyalties to stick to.'

'I can only assume you speak of James. Surely you wouldn't be referring to Chloe Swann? That little-'

'Watch yourself.'

She sighed. Tristan looked away, out over the lake. The Durmstrang ship sat fat and low in the water. Her sails furled and still. A few figures could be made out from the distance; the majority of her passengers were off to Hogsmeade with the rest of the students. Where Tristan would rather be. Or so he told himself.

'So you don't think she's a little… full on?'

'She's affectionate, that's all. Lay off her.'

'Affectionate is a nice card at the lunch table. Hunting you down through every corner of the school, sifting through your bag, reading your owls-'

'I said, drop it.'

Tristan's scowl was a real one now. She was goading him, she knew what she was doing. Trying to coax an admission out of him that he wasn't willing to give. At least not to her.

'I think you only keep her around as a distraction. Something to keep your mind occupied and your ego inflated. Something to stop you thinking about… someone else. Perhaps you see her as the lesser of two evils.'

She had tilted her head towards him, looking up through long, dark lashes. Her slender fingers gripped the edge of the boat tightly. One foot lay atop the other, close to making contact with his own. He stared anywhere to not have to look into her eyes.

'Well, you're certainly evil. Now give me the clue, or I jump out and swim back from here, to hell with your games.'

'Oh, very well,' she sighed, fishing in her pocket for a tiny folded slip of parchment. 'I guess I should tell you, that all three together make the fourth, which will give you the location and time to find the book. How you go about that is up to you.'

'So this is it, then?'

'Only if you want it to be.'

'Good.' Tristan snatched the parchment and stuffed it into his pocket. Her musical laughter held a faint colouring of mockery. He couldn't grab hold of the oars fast enough.

She made him row out to the Durmstrang ship on their way back, and circle around it once. At the bows, she dipped her hand into the water, pressing a single, wet palm print up against the wood, leaving a tiny black mark that faded in the sunlight even as they watched.

He was silent the rest of the way. He remained silent as he helped her disembark, and she favoured him with a graceful curtsey. He counted to a thousand in his head after she left before following suit, just to be safe. His gaze lingered on his feet as he scuffed along the cobblestones up to the castle. It was finally over. The book was going to be theirs again, as it should be. As he'd been striving for this whole damned year.

So why was he feeling so melancholy about it all?

* * *

'…oh and there was this one time, when I hadn't slept the _whole_ night before because I was up studying. But it was totally worth it because Professor Plye said I got the highest marks in the _whole_ year. One hundred and eleven percent! Tristan would have been so proud.'

The group were crammed around a table near the back of The Three Broomsticks. James made to take a sip of his butterbeer, but found it empty. Of course it was. They'd been stuck around the table listening to Chloe recount every single test she'd ever aced for the past forty minutes. Cassie had taken to simply banging her head against the table repeatedly after about minute twenty-seven. The soft, rhythmic _thud_ had put Fred to sleep shortly after. James jammed an elbow into his ribs.

'Wha- who's there? Is she gone?'

'Chloe has just finished telling us an interesting story about her entire exam history,' James explained. He tried ever so hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

'Oh it's not the _entire_ history. That was only first year. You see, in second year-'

'Er, I've got a date with Rosie,' Fred blurted out, and bolted from the room before anyone could stop him.

'Me too,' Clip hastily added, jumping up from his seat.

'You've _also_ got a date with Rosie?' Cassie asked, one eyebrow quirked.

'Yes- er, no- I've got to go and, erm… iron my… my broomstick! Yea, that's it, bye!'

James could only sigh in defeat when Cat and Cassie made their own excuses. He'd been surprised Cassie had lasted this long without throttling Chloe, so it was probably in everyone's best interests that those two didn't spend so much time together.

All of a sudden, it was just the two of them left at the table. Chloe smiled politely over at him, her wide, brown eyes blinking owlishly. Somehow, three empty mugs of butterbeer sat abandoned before her. She was casually sipping on a fourth.

'This stuff always goes straight to my head,' she giggled, and proceeded to down the entire contents of the mug before James' eyes. He could only look on, appraisingly.

'Do you want to hear about the time I accidentally spilled Dragon Dung on Tristan's shirt in Herbology. He had to take it off to change…'

'Er, I think not,' James hastened to reply. How about we walk and talk?' He stood up and motioned for the door. If it was the butterbeer that was making her talk, he wanted to get her as far away from that as possible.

Outside the chill was biting. It was late March, so most of the snow had gone, leaving only a faint dusting atop the higher peaks around them, but the wind that snaked up the valley towards them had dragged its fingers through every instance of it, gathering the bitter cold in close and depositing it in the narrow streets of Hogsmeade, the tall buildings acting as funnels, so that everywhere they wind their cloaks snapped and flapped, traitorously opening to let in icy tendrils again and again.

Standing up seemed to have something of a detrimental effect on Chloe's stability. Or perhaps it had been the copious amounts of drink she'd consumed only moments prior. She giggled as she stumbled over a particularly innocuous-looking pebble, grabbing onto James' arm for support.

'Who made these streets all – _hic –_ sideways?'

James checked his watch. Not even lunchtime. This was shaping up to be a long day.

He tried to take her to Quality Quidditch Supplies, but she started pulling twigs out the back of a brand new Comet, giggling and whispering 'He loves me, he loves me not,' over and over. James hurried them back out into the cold before the owner noticed the sacrilege.

'What's your favourite thing about him?' Chloe asked as they walked down the main street together. There was no doubt as to whom she was referring.

'Er, I dunno. He's pretty funny, I guess. Good at punching things.'

'I think it's his eyes. Or his big, muscly arms. Or the way he smiles when he's about to tell a joke, like he's already found it funny and he can't wait to share with everyone else, but just for that tiny moment it's all his and he's secretly so proud of himself for thinking of it.'

'Er, yea. All that, too, I guess.'

'Where is he, today?'

James had been hoping they'd avoid that question. It was a large part of the reason he'd let her drone on about her tests for so long. _That,_ at least, was a safe topic. Chloe didn't seem like the type to take it particularly well if she found out Tristan didn't quite reciprocate her… infatuation.

'Just, erm… meeting a friend.'

'Is it a _girl?'_

 _Damnit._

'Erm, doing homework. He's meeting a friend to do homework. In the library. Very boring stuff.'

'But he doesn't have any homework.'

'How do you…'

'Well, he had Herbology yesterday, and Professor Longbottom didn't give any out. He's finished his Transfiguration essay. And I saw his completed questionnaire for Potions when I handed in my own. I changed a few answers for him so he'll get an "Exceeds Expectations". Because he _Exceeds_ my-'

'Alright, let me stop you there,' James interrupted. 'Forget I asked. He's just a bit busy, that's all.'

'I'll find out,' she whispered. 'I always do. I'm sleepy.'

She abruptly stopped walking, and rested her head on James' shoulder. Unsure of what to do, James stayed rooted to the spot, allowing the crowd to flow around them for a moment.

'Oh, Merlin's _tits,'_ he suddenly swore. 'C'mon sleepyhead.'

He tried to drag Chloe down the nearest alleyway, but she wasn't having a bar of it.

'Fancy seeing you here,' came the smooth purring of a new voice. The very one that James had been hoping to avoid.

'Hi Odette. This isn't- isn't what it looks like. I'm just- she's just-'

Odette was looking down disapprovingly. James wished Chloe would stop clinging to his arm so tightly, or resting her head on his shoulder like they were a couple. Or really do _anything_ to help the situation. She'd taken to sighing softly and playing with one of the toggles on his coat. And _this_ was supposed to be one of the brightest minds in the year?

'Getting them full of butterbeer and sneaking off to a dark alley? That hardly sounds like you, Potter.'

'We're _not!_ I-'

'A blonde one, too. Bet you're thrilled we _bumped into_ one another.' Her face was calm, but there was something in the tone of voice that brought back all of James' memories about the bitter, cruel girl who had tormented Rain on the Hogwarts Express. The nasty side of Odette Mansfield that everyone kept warning him about, and that he kept trying to look past. 'If you're trying for a cheap knock-off to make me jealous, at least get something that gives me… credit.'

She cupped her breasts pointedly, staring at Chloe's slender frame, clearly disapproving.

She spun away before James could get another word in, back to a waiting figure clad in blue and gold. For a moment, James panicked, afraid it was Loyal. But this one looked even more haughty and disapproving. He skewered James with a vicious glare before marching off, arm-in-arm with Odette.

Chloe was giggling, mimicking Odette's final action and staring down at her chest.

'She seems nice.'

'Some good you were,' James sighed, marching onwards without even waiting to see if Chloe followed.

She did. And then she wanted to stop off in Lady Loretta's Love Shack for a gift for Tristan.

'I'll wait for you out here,' James mumbled, gesturing her onwards. She skipped happily across the threshold, and James finally had some peace.

He considered running, he really did. But he'd made a promise to Tristan. He knew that, if the roles were reversed, Tristan would have stayed for James. James had always felt that he could trust him. He'd hate to think he could be the one to break that trust.

A loose stone was a great candidate for James to line up and boot into a nearby wall. He watched it crack under the impact with delight. The street they'd gone down was off the main thoroughfare. It was a dead-end, terminating in a small square surrounded by shabby shop fronts and cramped residences. A small fountain, in the shape of a young wizard stood at the centre, coated in verdigris and moss. A grimy trickle of muddy water flowed from the end of his wand, doing little more than stirring up the muck in the bottom of the pool.

James headed over to investigate, dragging his feet across the cobbled path as he did, his mind mired in self-pity, his stomach somewhere around his bootlaces. Of all the people to run into. He shouldn't have let Fred leave. Or Clip. Or anyone, really. And now Odette thought he was on a date with Chloe to make her jealous. And she obviously hadn't been jealous. Just mad. James could have kicked himself. He reached into the bottom of the fountain and hefted a stone.

Meanwhile _she_ was dating another Beauxbatons fop. Another Loyal _bloody_ Clavet. With his stupid sense of entitlement and stupid robes and the stupid way he had slid his arm around her so casually, like they'd been doing it for months. They were probably off to the Three Broomsticks to smuggle some Firewhiskey and get drunk and sneak out the back and… and…

' _Fucking_ Blues,' James swore.

With nobody around, he tossed the rock at the door to a nearby outhouse. It hit the glass pane and shattered it clean. As the shards tumbled down to the pavement, a deafening claxon cut through the stillness of his abandoned street, forcing him to clap his hands to ears protectively.

Had he done that? He spun about, waiting for an adult to swoop down and reprimand him. Screams were sounding from a street over. He crouched behind the fountain for a moment. If someone threw a cursory glance down the alley, they mightn't see him.

A series of dull thuds and iron-like clanging was joining the cacophony. The screams were building in pitch, edged with fear. Through it all, the siren blared, making it hard for James to concentrate on anything for more than a moment.

'Shit, Chloe.'

He jogged awkwardly back towards the store she'd entered, hands over ears. The thuds were getting closer. He was able to make out some words among the screaming.

'Let me in!'

'Please, don't leave me out here!'

'They're coming!'

James' heart skipped a beat. Images of the beginning of the year flickered through his mind. Of a witch, desperately tearing at the bars on a window, as James and Al looked on. Of a rabid face, growling his name, hammering at the same glass, crazed and frantic. An Infected.

And this time, James was the one on the outside.

His jog became a sprint. He lunged for the door, but it was stuck fast. He hammered on it with his fists.

'Hey, open up!'

No response. The windows were clouded and murky. Shapes moved inside. Something shattered. A scream sounded from within.

He ripped his wand free, tried every spell he knew. When a grate of iron bars dropped down, nearly skewering him in the process, he knew it was a lost cause. All around him, the source of the heavy thudding was apparent. Doors were becoming barred, windows sealed. Medieval gates erected outside every residence. Most showed rust and decay. Out of use since the days of Voldemort, perhaps.

If they were meant to keep out a Dark Lord, James realised his chances of breaking through were slim to none.

The screaming had stopped now. Not cut off, but trailed away. The desperate souls had found a home, had found safety. All, except for him.

A roar cut through the sound of the siren. Something so raw and animal it could hardly be human. Another answered, off to James' left. It couldn't have been more than a couple streets over. Then a third, fourth and fifth. To his right, more distant. The Infected were stalking the streets of Hogsmeade, and he was trapped out with them.

Sounds became amplified to his ears. Was that a shuffling footfall, or the dragging of a branch across a rooftop? Everything took on a dire cast. Crashes and bumps mocked him. Shadows haunted the square behind him. The trickle of water from the statue's wand seemed to roar like a waterfall into the stillness.

There was nowhere to go, backwards. He could run, but he was far from the outskirts of the village. Another scream pierced the rhythmic wailing of the sirens, rooting James to the spot as his blood ran as cold as the wintry air. Closer, this time.

His wand was held in shaking hands. The response in Diagon Alley had been quick. He'd just have to hold out for a minute or two. A violent gust of wind tore a small branch free overhead. It crashed down near his feet, almost drawing forth a barrage of hexes in defence. Far off, the rattling of iron bars was unmistakeably human.

He backed down the alley. Keeping an eye towards the main street. He kept himself low, huddled up against the sides of buildings. Any hint of a shadow was a friend, for now.

Windows were barred and shuttered. Most houses stood silent. He heard wailing coming from within one. He willed the child silent. Anything that would draw _their_ presence.

Suddenly, a loud, grating noise. Clanging and clattering throughout the small square. James hissed every curse he knew, picking himself up off the cobbles. A fragment of rusty iron guttering lay shattered around him. He rubbed his ankle where he'd tripped over it. The sounds of its demise still echoed throughout the square. And then he heard it.

In the gap between cries of the alarm, that half-second of peace where it paused to gather its breath, a roar from multiple throats. All of the Infected, however many were present. They couldn't have been more than a street over. James gave up the pretence of stealth, and dashed to the only open building in the square – the outhouse with the shattered window. If he could seal himself away in there, he might be safe, at least for long enough for help to arrive.

A massive, splintering crash sounded, way off on the far side of the village. It shook the earth beneath his feet. _Please, let that be the help,_ he begged.

The outhouse door hung ajar. Dark shadows concealed what lay within. It was only a little taller than James. Behind it, he could see part of another street, ghostly in its abandonment.

Movement from his periphery. He spun. Merely a sudden jet of water from the fountain. His eyes flicked back ahead, and his cry was frustration and dismay.

An Infected was clambering over the roof of the outhouse.

That it had once been human, James had no doubt. A middle aged wizard, perhaps. Maybe older. The way his face had decayed and his flesh yellowed, it was hard to discern. Open sores wept blood and worse, across every inch of exposed skin. Stained teeth snarled an animal growl. The eyes were wide and wild, but they fixed on James, the moment he moved. Where the wind had been keeping their suffocating stench at bay, in such close proximity, James got a full blast of it. Rot and decay. Air, untouched for millennia, sweet and disgusting. Overpowering.

It smelled of death.

He turned and fled, not even bothering to cast a spell. His footsteps hammered against the uneven cobbles. Behind him, the slapping of bare feet on stone announced his pursuit. He could hear the laboured, snarling breath. Loud in his ears, even over the siren.

The main street was up ahead. It led to the exit. To freedom. Another splintering, earth-shaking crash, closer this time. Figures appeared at the head of the alleyway. James' heart plummeted. Shambling gaits, low growls and loose, tatty clothes. Four more Infected.

Trapped, he skidded to a stop. His only way out was blocked. He fired a Stunner at the Infected behind him, which it swatted away with ease. It drew a wand, and James tried an _Expelliarmus._ His spell was promptly shielded.

The four behind him had sensed blood, and tore into the alleyway with what passed for glee writ across their twisted faces. James' only hope was back past the one. He hammered it with the nastiest spells he could think of. Stunners and Cutters and Blasters. A simple Knockback Jinx staggered it for long enough for him to slip past. He felt fingers snatch at his hair, tangle in it and jerk his head around painfully. He stumbled, nearly dropping his wand. Unforgiving pavement drew blood at knee and wrist and elbow. Grasping hands found purchase on a sneaker. He kicked, panic rising like a great wave inside him. Again and again. A hiss that might have been pain, and the grip loosened. He shoved himself upright, tore off back up the alley. Past the fountain which watched on, uncaring.

At the outhouse, he leapt upwards, trying for purchase on the shabbily-tiled roof. If he could scale it, he'd be free, into the street behind. A tile came free beneath his fingers. Again, he met the stones underfoot. He knocked his head against them. Tiny bursts of colour blossomed in his vision. The scene before him swam. He struggled to process it. Five figures, sprinting madly towards him. Grunts and growls and half-formed words crowding their lips. They were close now. He was going to meet them soon. In his dazed state, he wondered if they'd like him. Then, he wondered why that house was swelling, like a giant balloon.

The Infected hadn't noticed it; they continued their headlong dash at James. As the haze over his mind cleared, he cast a shield charm, not against them, but against the hail of glass and timber that burst outward into the square, knocking two of them to the ground and sending dangerous projectiles arcing across the cramped space.

The Infected flinched, halting their headlong charge towards James to face the new threat. He struggled to make out the figures among the dust that was slowly settling. Ironic, that he'd been plotting to subvert the Steelhearts only a few days earlier, and now they were about to save him.

But it wasn't a troop of battle-hardened figures that coalesced through the dust. He was having trouble making shapes out because there were no shapes to make. Well, not _shapes,_ as such. Just the one.

A slender young girl with eyes of sea green and hair of rose gold.

Rain lifted an arm, and James felt himself forced back against the wall of the nearest building, unable to move. He was pinned, barely able to lift his wand hand up. The air was squeezed from his lungs so that even breathing was a chore.

But he didn't need to defend himself, as the Infected now had eyes only for Rain. James tried to cast spells at their backs. She was only one girl, against five of them. He could help, they could do it together.

The fountain adorning the square suddenly exploded. Shards of copper and brass flew through the air like shrapnel. A thick gout of water flooded upwards, bubbling over the lip of the pool. James watched as it kept flowing. Much more than the meagre trickle he had seen could possibly account for. The Infected had slowed their advance, snapping and growling like caged animals. They fanned out around her, so that she was almost surrounded. Still the water began to flow, pooling now at all of their feet.

With only the barest flick of her wrist as warning, Rain brought the water rearing up behind her in a giant pillar. It towered, frothing and roiling, glowing a clear, stunning azure in the midday sun for a moment before she brought it down among them. It moved like a giant, thrashing snake, tossing bodies across the space like ragdolls. Crashing into the ground and reforming, again and again. Slashing, tossing, and spitting a foamy, relentless power. All the while, the water from the fountain continued to flow, to feed her rampage. James watched in awe at the sheer power on display before him, and then in disgust at the way the Infected seemed unable to stop.

Shattered bones jutted through torn skin. Fresh wounds that would have crippled a full-grown man sat open and disgustingly bloodless. Still they shuffled forward. Or crawled, if they had to. Rain's pillar of water formed the head of a giant snake, snapping the arm clean off one of the assailants. He barely batted an eye, and not a single drop of blood flowed forth from the gruesome wound. Unfazed, Rain took a step backwards, towards the breach she had made. James struggled to draw his wand, but in a fight of this magnitude, he didn't know how much help he could be.

The serpent drew back above her, hovering suspended in the air. With a hiss that could have come from her or the beast, she flung her arms forward. Tiny droplets of the water showered the Infected, seeming to halt them momentarily, stagger their advance. They clawed at face and hands and suddenly James saw why: the water was not ordinary rainfall – it was as tiny shards of ice or, perhaps, glass, tearing through their flesh wherever it landed. Hasty shields erected were swiftly shattered. Screams of rage intermingled with pain now. Strips of skin tore free from their bodies. Great swathes of pulped, pinky flesh was exposed below. James had to fight the urge to gag as some terrible vitality still powered them, forcing them on as if drawn by a magnet.

The barrage continued. Slicing robes, shattering wands. Evens sending chips of rock scattering up off the pavement where the droplets landed. It was a storm of epic ferocity, contained within that one tiny square, but for all James could tell, that was their entire world at that moment.

He wondered if maybe, just maybe, that Rain was a name that she'd earned, rather than been given at birth.

When the downpour ceased, five twisted figures still remained. They were disfigured almost beyond recognition. Wandless, some even faceless, but still they advanced. Rain almost took on a look of resignation, and a quick gesture in James' direction set him free.

'Run, James Potter. Run now.' Her voice was a strained whisper, but he heard it perfectly across the square.

He took one step, but no more. He'd not abandon her now. A well-placed Cutter severed the foot from one Infected. It fell to the ground, its advance now a desperate crawl. James gagged.

'Run, James.' Tears were streaking Rain's face now. She held one hand out in the direction of the Infected, made no other movement.

And suddenly their screams returned in earnest.

James watched, as they seemed to disintegrate before his very eyes. Flecks of dust rained down from them, gathering in little piles at their feet. It started in what was left of their extremities, creeping up arms and legs. They tried to bat it away unsuccessfully. They were nothing more than writhing piles of dying humanity on the ground around Rain's feet now, prostrate, almost as if in worship. She slowly drew her fingers in, and the screams became too much for James to take. As if their very life was being drawn out through their throats, a wailing so filled with sheer, childish panic and uncertainty in the face of what was happening, that James couldn't help but feel a moment of empathy for the poor, lost souls who had succumbed to the disease. And a burning hatred for the one who had done this to them.

Slowly, as the last of their bodies faded to ash, a wispy ewe of shining blue light whipped from them up towards Rain. It wrapped around her outstretched hand, around her exposed skin. The blue looked so alien against the honeyed brown. James yelled in alarm, dashed towards her, but the light had faded, seeming to seep into her very skin by the time he reached her.

When he got there, she was sobbing. Her head was in her hands. James couldn't see any of her face.

'James, you have to go. Run. Run now.'

He halted, his own hand outstretched, inches away from taking her arm.

'B-but you won,' he stammered, looking down at the piles of ash that skittered about the corners of the square. 'It's over now. They're gone.'

A single, great sob racked her whole body. James reached out for her, but she flinched away.

'No, James Potter. Not them,' she whispered. And when she pulled her hands free from her face, he saw her eyes had been replaced with molten orbs of gold. 'Me.'


	21. Mirrored Reflections & Eyeless Faces

'H-Harry Potter?'

James froze, his arm outstretched. She'd called him Harry only twice before. Both times, she'd been in great peril.

'No Rain, it's me. _James_.'

There was no inclination that she'd heard him. She was studying him intently – or at least so he thought – her eyes were featureless golden orbs, shining so bright that he was forced to squint against the glare. She took a step towards him. Her lone footfall sounded as if she were walking on a field of shattered glass.

'Together again, Harry Potter.'

James gasped. She spoke in a voice that wasn't Rain's at all. It was deep and slow and powerful, possessing a self-assurance that could only be gained from countless experiences over a lifetime far beyond that of a fourteen-year-old girl. She spoke, and the world around James changed. It flickered in and out of existence. The dirty alley and leaning shops were replaced by a sea of grey all around them. Featureless, flat, unending. But it lasted only the space between two heartbeats, brought forth at the call of not-Rain's voice.

'What are we, this time around, Harry Potter? And why does it feel different? Will we be friends, allies, lovers? And where lies the distinction between each? Or will this be an existence in which we are destined to fight to the death? For you must know that for us, there is no middle ground. This, everything you see-' and here she paused to gesture about the desolate, grey space, '-it revolves around us. So tell me: what will we be in this life, or have we not yet figured it out?'

She took one more step towards him. James, instinctively, took one backwards. As the vision flickered once more into existence, he felt his own shoe met with a shattering crunch. He looked down and gasped. For the briefest of moments he saw it – the ground all around them was littered with jagged shards. They were standing on a sea of broken glass.

'Sometimes I still see your blood on my hands. And sometimes I still remember falling asleep in your arms for the last time. Do you know what it is like, to remember all of your deaths? They haunt my dreams, every night. To close my eyes is to give in to the terror. Something I have never known before. Is it cowardly to say that it frightens me beyond anything I've ever known? And so again I must ask: what has changed? Why does it feel like this time around might be our last?'

James was backing away fully now. He was unsure if he'd so much as moved within the alleyway, but in the strange, grey void which seemed to be wrapped around the pair of them, his footsteps matched Rain's advance. They echoed out into nothingness. The enveloping grey, he now saw, was a mist. Thick and low and suffocating. Shapes swirled and lurked behind it. They coalesced and evaporated in his periphery, looming greater as the visions of this haunted world grew longer each time.

'Rain, listen. It's James. Not Harry. If this is the Infected talking, then you can fight it. I know you can. Just listen to my voice.'

'Oh, I've tried fighting it,' not-Rain laughed. 'I've spent lifetimes fighting it. Trying to get back. To get out. Funny, to think I could waste an entire existence on fleeing from my wildest dreams. But it took a part of us, of both of us, I think. All those lifetimes ago. It took _all_ of me. I gave myself willingly. So young, so lost. You were saved before you had the chance. But the holes in our lives were both so great, and our desire to fill them so strong, that perhaps _took_ is the wrong word. Perhaps we, instead, gave willingly.'

James' mind was racing. The desolate landscape around them was almost permanent now. He felt it tugging at himself. The more he looked around and experienced it, the more he gave it permission to exist, to anchor itself around him. _Within_ him. The alleyway seemed a lifetime ago. _It_ now seemed like the dream, this new, bleak world the reality. If only he would let it sink in its claws. Voices rung out, reaching through the haze. Somewhere, deep and buried within his mind, gears slowly turned.

 _Steelhearts._

'Rain, we- we've got to go. They're coming. Steelhearts are coming.'

Her golden eyes did not falter. In this new world, _her_ world, James noticed her appearance had changed. Taller, slimmer. Older. Her hair longer and paler. And the scars. Over every inch of exposed skin, they criss-crossed her like veins providing lifeblood. They were pale and terrifying in the ghostly light.

'And then to find it taken from us. My escape. My retreat. My _real_ life, for the one I had been ghosting through was the true reflection, I had come to understand. You had been caught, but not me. No, nobody ever saw me. Except when I was in that room, looking through to the real life that awaited. Do you think anybody missed me, when I stepped through? Do you think anybody noticed? If they knew me they'd have been happy, for that which I wanted more than anything in the world was to no longer be a part of it.'

'Listen to me Rain. It's not you talking. Listen to my voice. I'm James Potter. Not Harry. I rescued you from the Desecrator in first year. We fought the Atlanteans together. We've done F.A.R.T club and the eighth floor, and that time Fred snuck so much Nosebleed Nougat into your breakfast you fainted at the table. It's _me.'_

There it was. The faintest flicker in that burning gold. The shattering, even for just a moment, of the bleak, dead world which she was drawing him into. The voices, once so distant, were very real now. Rough and angry and close. Bringing a new kind of danger.

'W-why must you call me this, Harry Potter?' her voice was weaker now. She had stopped advancing upon him. Visions of the alleyway were intermingled with the other world. Swirling and overlain in a nausea-inducing manner, so James couldn't tell which was which. 'Do you not recognise me? It is I, it's-'

And she collapsed at his feet. The haze around him crumbled into a thousand pieces the moment she did so. James found himself exactly where he had been before Rain had spoken, arm still outstretched, not having moved an inch. He was now reaching towards nothing, as Rain was in a ball at his feet. The sound of footsteps just outside their alleyway was growing. Unsure of what to do, but certain only that letting the Steelhearts get their hands on Rain was a bad idea, James leaned down and scooped her up, making for the exit, away from the voices.

The moment the alley was clear, he bolted. His legs carried him through the cobbled streets. Familiar shops whipped past. His arms began to burn from exertion, and he had to stop twice, each time resting Rain on a bench to regain his strength. The second time, her eyelids fluttered open at the disturbance. Blessedly, it was the familiar sea-green that searched and found him.

'James,' she whispered, so quiet that he had to lean in to hear.

'It's alright Rain, we're out of there,' he assured her. 'We're safe.'

But she was shaking her head again. 'I'm not- James I'm not a monster. I promise.'

Before her eyelids slid closed once more, James saw a single tear leak out, and track a bright, clear path through the grime coating her cheek.

Just outside the reaches of Hogsmeade, James met Professor Longbottom on the path to the castle. They almost collided around a blind corner. The professor had been tearing down towards the village, wand drawn. Still covered head to toe in dirt and muck from the Greenhouse.

One look at James, arms quivering, legs threatening to buckle beneath him, and he scooped Rain up. James tried to protest. If Rain had been Infected… but he lacked the strength.

'Easy, Potter. You're with me now. You're safe.'

'Professor… the Infected- she- gone- I think she might be.'

To Professor Longbottom's credit, he didn't so much as flinch. He merely shifted Rain to a more comfortable position, and lay a hand on James' shoulder.

' _She_ did? So, they are no more?'

James nodded, unsure how else to describe what he'd just witnessed.

'Come on then, let's get the pair of you safe.'

The Professor guided James up to the castle. James was thankful for the firm presence of the hand at his shoulder. It was an anchor to reality, as a surreal sort of haze, not unlike that which Rain had conjured, was threatening to overwhelm him once more. He looked on mutely as Madam Petheridge fussed over Rain in her bed at the hospital wing, and was confused when she turned and rounded on him.

She pointed down at his foot, for him to see his trainer – once white – now a blood-soaked red. A trail of footsteps led all the way out the door of the Hospital Wing. She lay him down and held him there as a dark-cloaked figure – Renshaw – entered and conjured sealed curtains around Rain's bed beside him. James' struggles were weak. A brief stab of pain in his foot, and then warmth. Madam Petheridge pressed something into his hand, and he studied it, confused.

The effects of the Sleeping Draught he'd been given were already overwhelming him, but he was certain that in his hand, he held a blood-soaked shard of mirrored glass.

* * *

Three days after the event found James tucked away in Professor Longbottom's office nursing a cup of hot cocoa late into the evening. The mug steamed happily in his hands, a pair of pink marshmallows struggling to stay afloat as they became more and more sodden. With a small fire crackling behind the grate, and the dark wood panelling of the Professor's office reflecting the light warmly, James felt he could almost bathe in the comfort that the room radiated. Pictures of familiar faces smiled down at him from the shelves. Across a low, mahogany table sat the professor himself, smiling vaguely, as he thumbed through one among the veritable mountain of Herbology textbooks surrounding his plush armchair.

In truth, James was hiding. Again. An array of half-eaten snacks, and an empty plate that had once been piled high with treacle tarts adorned the coffee table. He hadn't been to dinner since _that_ day. He couldn't face the crowds. Their looks. Their whispers. Their questions.

James took a sip of his drink. The heat trickled through him, all the way down to his toes. He stretched contentedly.

'Did you know that there's a plant called Liar's Nettle?' Professor Longbottom asked, without looking up from his book. 'If consumed, it causes the patient to impulsively lie for up to three hours.'

'Hmm,' James replied. 'Wonder what happens if you give them Veritaserum.'

'A headache, I'd imagine.'

The pair both chuckled. Mindless conversation to pass the time. It seemed to James, that Professor Longbottom was the only one in the castle who didn't need him to relive the events of Hogsmeade over again each time they met. First had been Renshaw, spiriting him away the moment he was released from the Hospital Wing. For over two hours he'd been cross-examined, his story run over with the finest of combs. He'd left feeling drained and exhausted, only to have to go through the ordeal again and again with all of his friends. Their questions, queries, their persistent prodding. Their speculation. Cassie's tears. All took something form him in his retelling. An energy, or some sort of reserve he didn't know had been drained that day. It left him feeling flat and drained. Used, every time.

'Do you think she's weird?' James asked, out of the blue. For the first time that evening, Professor Longbottom folded his book closed. He knew of whom James spoke.

'Only insofar as any girl who has grown up without a home is different. Love, companionship, trust. These are all things we learn first form our family. We are given much different lessons when forced to grow up alone. Often, the only teachers available are ourselves.'

'I know that, I think… But, I guess I mean that she was kidnapped in first year. And then in second year the Atlanteans came for her. Now this. Why always her? It's like something out of a story, or… or a prophecy. People say there' something wrong with her. That she's Dark.'

'People said the same things about your father when he was at school. Because he was different. Things happened to him, and maybe, just maybe some of them were jealous. Most were probably scared, or confused. For as long as there has been two people to look or walk or talk differently to one another, there has been fear and unease between them. Different is harder to understand. Different is scary.'

 _And what if she_ is _different?_ James didn't voice the question. Instead, he turned to stare out the single window the office possessed. A view of the sloping castle grounds and the tops of the trees of the Forbidden Forest was obscured by torrential rainfall thrumming against the window pane. Somewhere out in those hills, Dorian Alder was hiding. Hills crawling with Infected, and now with Steelhearts. Sudden lightning splashed monochromatic shadows against the glass, obscuring more than it revealed. He sipped his hot chocolate slowly.

Despite the rigorous inquisition, he'd not told a soul about what Rain had said following her episode with the Infected. About what she might have revealed. A thousand possibilities raged through his mind like unchecked Fiendfyre, and it was burning him up, not being able – or willing – to share them with anyone. He needed his father. That much he knew. Somehow, Rain kept mistaking him for Harry. She'd spoken to him as if they were old friends. It was why he was almost adamant that she couldn't be Infected. Almost. The links to his father went back well before that. Something else must have happened. His ideas ranged from Possession to Curses and every Dark artefact of magic that his mind could come up with in between. Often, his thoughts followed tracks so winding and dark that he'd wonder if her being an Infected might not be the lesser of two evils, after all.

'Did my dad ever get caught doing something… against the rules when he was at school?' James asked, ruminating on Rain's choice of words.

Professor Longbottom chuckled to himself. 'Only every other day. Professor McGonagall had brown hair when we started Hogwarts. It was almost entirely grey by the time we left.'

'What about something that was taken from him, something important?'

The Professor studied him for a moment, glass in one hand. James mustered his most innocent look. Whatever it was that the professor had planned to ask, he held it back. True to his word not to pry. 'I think these are questions best left for your father, when he returns.'

'I just want to _do_ something about it. They- he- whatever is out there turning people into monsters. And now my friend might be one of them. Or worse. And we're all just moping around the castle doing nothing about it.'

'Has anyone ever told you that you can be rather like your father?'

'All Renshaw has done is slap some Steelhearts around the castle. The same Steelhearts that won't go looking for the Desecrator because the _Ministry_ tells them not to!'

A droplet of hot chocolate spilled over the lip of James' mug, now aquiver in his shaking hands. Professor Longbottom leaned forward to pluck it from his grasp with a knowing smile. He leaned back in his armchair and struck a patient pose, fingers laced across his stomach. It was familiar, and by now, practiced, because this was how all of James' nights would end. Railing against the slow machinations of a bureaucracy he couldn't – or wouldn't – understand.

But at least Professor Longbottom would try to help. To everybody else, it was just something that they accepted. Something weird and dangerous had happened to Rain. _That's about right._ Their tones said it, if not their words. As if somehow this was to be expected, that it was almost her fault. Distancing themselves from the problem, as if afraid it might somehow become their own. As if the Infection could spread based on their very will to help alone.

He had thought Cassie would help – she and Rain were the closest. But the poor girl had been beside herself, sobbing and flustered. On top of that, she'd received an 'A' on a recent Charms essay, and the panic spiral had started anew.

And so, with his fists balled at his sides, an almost permanent scowl fixed on his face, here he was talking to a teacher, with nobody else to turn to.

"Renshaw hasn't done nothing, James. Give her some credit. She's had Beauxbatons trying to pull out of the junior Triwizard tournament because Hogwarts " _isn't safe"._ Not to mention the ongoing debacle from the Second Task. She's had to schedule an emergency meeting with some of their faculty just to keep the tournament alive. She's protecting the Castle, doing exactly what she needs to do to keep her students safe. Nobody will get in or out without her say-so. And believe me when I say this, it isn't healthy for a Head of Hogwarts to get involved in Ministry affairs.'

'What about Alder? He must be out in these hills somewhere. What if we can find him, and give him safety so he can finish his cure?'

' _If_ that is even what he is doing. That article in the _Prophet_ is the bloody reason all of the Infected are crawling through these hills in the first place. They're all thinking the same thing – if they're thinking at all – that he must know the cure. You know what I think? I think that if he really had a cure, or if safety was really what he wanted, he'd have come forward by now. Either this mysterious companion he is always with is his captor, or there's something else fishy going on there. I don't like it.'

'But if we can just sneak some of the _Sanocultus_ Sap out to him-'

'For the last time, James, no. That's far too dangerous. We don't even know what Alder is up to. Or if it even _is_ Alder.'

'Dad would know,' James grumbled, pushing himself up to leave. As usual, they had reached the end of their discourse. He argued for action, Professor Longbottom dissuaded him. James got to let out all of his frustrations against the professor's stoic façade. Nobody else saw him howl and rage and curse.

'I'm sure he would. And wherever he is right now, I'm damn certain that he has it all in hand.'

* * *

'Oh, for _fucks_ sake,' Harry Potter swore, wiping off a thick coating of excrement from the palms of both hands.

He scowled down at the innocuous little vine that had tripped him. Barely thicker than his shoelace. And of _course_ something had just recently chosen to relieve itself in the very spot he had fallen. Harry screwed up his nose as he used his wand to _Scourgify_ the last remaining, more liquid parts out from under his nails and the webs of his fingers. Bloody animals ate too much fruit around here.

'I hate the jungle,' Harry growled. His guide, the ever-irritating Dani Verales had remained silent thus far. Which was a wise call, as far as his ongoing wellbeing was concerned.

'And on that happy note, I must say _adios, amigo,'_ he grinned from where he was leaning casually up against a tree, chewing on a dried twig and cleaning his own nails with a wicked looking knife. Irritatingly at ease. 'My job is done.'

'You're not coming all the way?' Harry asked. 'But who do I offer up in sacrifice now, when I awaken an ancient demon of the deep?'

Dani's laugh was bitter. 'The Boy Who Lived is not so… indispensable now, hey _amigo_? I'm sure you'll figure something out.'

A stout two-fingered salute was Harry's only response.

'I'd shake your hand, but…' Dani looked pointedly down at Harry's filthy skin. _'Buena suerte_ , Harry Potter.'

And with the _crack_ of a snapping branch, he was gone.

Harry sighed into the silence that his companion left behind. Though, silence was a relative term in the jungle. A riot of birdcalls warred and quarrelled constantly, each seeking to out-do the other until none could be discerned form the intermingled, overlapping cacophony. Trees bowed and dipped in the winds. Leaves shivered and whispered, boughs groaned and protested beneath their load. Running water sounded somewhere up ahead. And the insects. Always the insects. They buzzed and zipped and zoomed. They hummed by past his ears so close and so fast that some could have been the size of small birds, for all he knew. Some probably _were._

He slapped at an ant currently trying it gnaw its way through the sleeve of his shirt. Everything bit, or stung, or was any of one hundred different flavours of poisonous. When he'd come this way the first time, with Teddy in tow, they'd had to turn back three times due to lack of preparation. This time, however, even Hermione would have been impressed by the amount of gear he'd managed to fit into a single backpack with a clever use of her favoured Undetectable Extension Charm.

This time, he only had one shot to get it right.

The first step of his solo journey was an uneventful one. As were the many dozens that followed it. He made his way towards the river he knew he'd need to cross. At its bank, he paused to survey the opposite side. He squinted against the harsh daylight, sudden and glaring in the winding, treeless expanse. No clouds were on offer to block the oppressive heat. With the air so thick he could almost chew on it, heavy and rich with moisture, he had already sweated clean through the shirt he was wearing. What he wouldn't give for a nice, cool bath.

A small rise a few hundred metres upriver signalled his destination. He made his way along the bank, stumbling and cursing and swatting his painful way towards the ford. River water and mud soon flooded his boots. His feet slipped and squelched, but he was grateful for the relative cool.

At the crossing he paused. He pulled forth a water bottle form his back and emptied its contents into his mouth. He refilled it with an _Aguamenti_ charm, and repeated the process. Teddy had found this crossing, the first time around. He'd been so chuffed with himself. They'd spent two days trawling the riverside looking for it. Harry had begun to hope that they'd never find it, or that it had been washed away. That they'd be told to turn back. A large part of him had wanted to.

The marker hung, nailed unceremoniously to a tree. If he squinted, he could just make out a matching one on the far bank. Several more had been scattered around the roots, but the wet, creeping rot of the jungle had since turned them into little more than indigestible leavings. So much garbage scattered in homage at the base of these mighty trees.

The hard part had been done. From here on in, the path was marked, if one knew how to look. Dani had done his job, getting Harry to the beginning of the trail, negotiating passage with the locals, bribing and coercing where it was needed to ensure their presence was kept as secret as possible. Somewhere, what seemed like a million miles away, the body of Dorian Alder would be preparing to act as bait one last time. If their hunter had figured out the ruse, it was critical that he think Harry still resided with him.

The passage across the river was slow and halting. The footing uncertain and unforgiving each time he made a misstep. Rocks tumbled and rolled beneath his searching footfalls, inviting rolled ankles or worse. The current was lively, tugging at his trousers, urging him onwards toward the murky depths that loomed either side of the narrow ford. Beneath the watchful eye of the sun, he eventually made it across. He paused to study the marker, nailed again to the rough bark of a tree.

It was a tiny human doll, with darkened skin. Female, wrapped in grass skirts. Several like it lay also at the foot of this tree. But where creeping decay had claimed all but the most resistant of fabrics on the other side of the river, here they lay fresh and untouched. Bleached and paled by countless days in the sun, but not a hint of rot or mould showing. Some dolls wore grass skirts, some wore long, flowing dresses. Some appeared to be naked. They were tall or short, fat or thin, no two alike, barring for the curious similarity that all had seen their eyes picked out, and all bore an identical, haunting visage that seemed to follow Harry's move intently. He shuddered, drawing his hand back and setting off down the concealed path he had walked once before.

Moments after he had passed, a shadow-cloaked figure emerged from the undergrowth. It straightened the doll upon the tree lovingly, adjusting clothing and positions of those upon the ground. A long, cruel spear sat, for a moment forgotten, in the undergrowth. And with no more sound than a stiff breeze, the shadow set out on the path carved by Harry Potter.


	22. Billowed Sails & Sooty Cookware

The loss to Durmstrang in their latest Quidditch match was a bitter pill for the Hogwarts team to swallow. They were better fliers. They had better brooms. James and Lynch were no longer throttling each other at every given moment. Ava Adams had spent the week building them up for the beginning of their brilliant comeback, now that the cards were finally beginning to fall their way.

As James sat upon his broom, hovering at midfield and watching the mottled grey-and-brown clad supporters of Durmstrang shake the stands with their applause, he contemplated the one thing that, perhaps, the Hogwarts team was still missing.

It was the teamwork of Durmstrang that had defeated them. The way all seven players reacted to each move on the field as if they were one. Each was sympathetic to the others' actions, so that the moment James gave away that he sought to press the attack up the left flank, he'd find two Bludgers and a pair of burly Chasers in his path. The way that their Beaters, instead of simply belting the Bludger at the nearest Hogwarts opponent, would pass between one another to get a better, more effective angle, and the way their own teammates knew every time to duck as the shot fired over their head.

It had been no surprise, then, when the Snitch had appeared, that a Durmstrang Chaser had conveniently "dropped" the Quaffle right into Fred's lap as he made to deter the Grey's Seeker. His shot was fouled, sent high and wide. Right onto the waiting bat of a Durmstrang Beater, who rocketed the Bludger meant for his own Seeker into Odette Mansfield, sending her careening from her broom, securing their victory.

And putting a major roadblock on any path Hogwarts now had to get a shot at the Championship.

The competitors in black slowly drifted back towards the changing sheds in ones and twos, heads down and closed off to the world. Completely ignoring their fallen companion still spread-eagled near the centre of the pitch. A team in name alone, it would seem. Too many egos still crowded that locker room, stifling any opportunity that true cooperation might have found to bloom.

A trail of scuffed footprints and overturned tufts of grass led to Fred and James, as they trudged forlornly up the grounds towards the castle. The empty, disjointed feeling inside James made everything feel hollow; the disappointment of the defeat rattled around inside him, clanging and jarring. Every play and missed opportunity grew large and taunting in his internal retelling.

'Seven hundred bloody fouls in Quidditch, and somehow, tossing a Quaffle at a Beater isn't one of them.' Fred's dark eyes hadn't lifted from the grass before his feet for their entire journey. He was taking the loss personally.

They'd lingered in the change rooms long after the loss. No-one had had words to say, but they'd wanted to avoid the crowds.

' _Losers!'_

'Check your eyesight Weasley, my Gran could have hit that!'

No such luck, it would seem.

'Ignore them, mate. They just want a reaction.' The conviction in James' voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. Fred's shrug was the faintest of responses.

Grass gave way to gritty cobblestones beneath their feet, and their sullen march continued, painted now in muddy brown on faded grey.

More jeers from their own classmates jabbed and stung like a swarm of wasps, constantly circling their heads. James looked forward to drawing his bed curtains and losing himself in the post-match ritual of caring for his broom. In that, at least, he might find some calm.

'Somebody stop her!'

'Miss Mansfield get back here, _right now!'_

The sound of a growing commotion greeted them as they ascended the steps into the Great Hall. A wobbly ring of students was beginning to form, encircling the action. James and Fred elbowed their way unapologetically to the front.

Odette Mansfield – dressed in the familiar Hospital Wing gown – was stumbling down the Grand Staircase, one step at a time. Under one arm was tucked a glass bottle filled with a rich, dark liquid. Her free hand held a wand, swaying and bobbing in the general direction of the school Matron; Madam Petheridge.

'C'mon, Prissy,' Mansfield slurred. 'Giz us a break.'

'Miss Mansfield, that is St Mungo's grade Pain-Relief potion. You've had _more_ than enough. I must insist you return it at once!'

Odette took a step backwards, down the stairs. She missed her footing entirely, and the gathering crowd gasped as she fell, bouncing down half a flight before she was able to halt the fall.

Madam Petheridge tried to swoop, but a wobbly wand jabbed at her chest pulled her up once more. Odette gave a little titter of laughter, clearly beyond any sort of pain. A thick streamer of blood flowed from a ruined lip. Her attention was fixated on the bottle. She checked it lovingly for any sign of damage.

'Ifissho fucking _good,_ Prissy,' Mansfield leaned in, as if she were about to divulge a secret. She tore the stopper free with her teeth and drained half the bottle. 'Why duzzit still _HURT_ that we fucking _LOST?'_

She screamed the last word, hurling the dregs at the wall. The bottle shattered, sending the inhabitants of a dozen portraits fleeing.

Leaving Madam Petheridge floundering in her wake, she stagger-marched down the remaining steps, leaning heavily on the handrail for support. The crowd began to part before her, flinching back from the blonde-haired maelstrom. A gap in the onlookers brought James almost face-to-face with Odette.

She paused, squinting at him for a long moment, swaying side-to-side as she did. She muttered something that sounded like 'stop fucking moving,' before turning on her heel and stomping off in the opposite direction.

James watched as she grabbed hold of an older Slytherin student by his collar, whispering something in his ear that made him first blush, and then nod eagerly. As the pair hurried off towards the Slytherin common room together, Odette paused to throw one last leer over her shoulder in James' direction.

'Tristan calls her the crazy train,' Fred muttered. 'More like a bloody train _wreck.'_

The cloying, deflated feeling of despair in James' stomach must have shown through to his face, as Fred changed tune, throwing an arm over his shoulders.

'Hey, ignore her mate. A clever bloke once told me they only do it for a reaction.'

James' broom didn't get to see any of its usual post-match ritual that evening, nor any of the next day. It wasn't until around lunchtime that Fred finally took pity on it and broke out his own polishing oil. James had barely moved from his bed. He'd attended breakfast only because he couldn't cast a Summoning Charm to bring a stack of toast up to his room. The continuing jeers and looks of disappointment that he'd earned for his efforts made him wish he hadn't bothered. He'd checked in on Rain briefly, but she'd been as still and lifeless as ever. The sun was beginning to skim the tops of the most distant mountains now, and James lay in the same hollow in the centre of his mattress that he'd occupied for the past five hours.

'It'll blow over, mate.' Fred said for the umpteenth time. His words were distracted and vague. He'd uttered similar encouragement throughout the entire afternoon, and was yet to elicit a response. Currently, he was busying himself by trying to shove something grey and hairy and no smaller than his trunk, into the top of his satchel back, barely larger than a textbook. 'We're not even out of the running yet, mathematically speaking.'

'Yea,' James mumbled into his pillow. 'All we need is for the _undefeated_ Beauxbatons to lose twice. Us to score at least twenty goals, Odette to not kill herself by overdosing on medication… I'll take a Philosopher's Stone and a years' supply of Chocolate Frogs while you're at it.'

'Oh no you don't,' Fred grunted, as the object of his attention tried to make a break for it. He left James' response hanging in the air, the negativity of it permeating the room and serving only to sour their respective moods.

Some time later, as the first of the night's stars were beginning to appear, two pairs of heavy footsteps bounded up the stairs to the dormitory. James groaned and made to pull his curtain closed, unwilling to face the looming prospect of small-talk with his dorm-mates.

'I've got something that'll cheer you two mopers right up!' Tristan's face appeared at the entranceway, and James halted in slamming shut his drapes. Clip was right behind him, slightly winded from his efforts to keep up.

'A Beauxbatons disqualification?' Fred asked darkly.

'Has Loyal Clavet dropped dead?' James added.

'Well you're a right pleasant bunch,' Tristan said, irritatingly chipper. He strode into the room and threw aside the curtains on James' bed, plonking himself down as if he'd just entered his own living room. 'But no, it's something even better.'

'A rematch with Durmstrang?' Fred tried again.

'Somebody found Odette's brain and put it back in her head?'

At James' last suggestion Tristan winced apologetically.

'Heard about that one, mate. Think everyone did. I guess there's, er… nowhere to go but up for you two now, right?'

'Gee, thanks.'

'Always happy to help. Now, get over here everyone, and check this out.'

Fred, with some reluctance, and Clip, with great enthusiasm, joined James and Tristan on James' bed. As Clip bounded aboard the supports gave a single ominous groan of protest. The four boys huddled into a tight circle around the centre of the bed. Tristan drew the drapes around them, and for good measure, drew his wand. _'Homenum Revelio,'_ he whispered. They were alone.

From deep within his robe, Tristan slowly drew forth a small package. A box, as long as James' forearm, and slightly wider. He placed it on the covers between them all. It gleamed pale against the rich, red covers. But perhaps it was not a box, James saw, as he studied further. For try as he might, he could see no opening or hinge anywhere.

'If you've interrupted my sulking to show me a damned lump of wood…' Fred began, but Tristan held up a finger.

'Gaze upon the glory, O fellow Crusaders, of the final piece of our most holy puzzle. The ultimate clue that will lead us onwards, to glory and honour, to the most secret and sacred of all knowledges: that which is trapped and guarded by the maze of insanity that is the mind of a young witch.' His cheeks were flushed with excitement, his pale eyes wide and wild. Beneath the black and gold trim of his Hufflepuff robe, his chest rose and fell rapidly with quick, sharp breaths.

'So what's it do?' James asked, sceptical.

With a knowing smile, Tristan tapped the top of the pale wood once with his wand. ' _Alohomora!'_

Clip gave a little 'Hmph' of surprise as the top of the box began to fold away before their very eyes. The wood peeled back on itself, folding along joints that were invisible to the naked eye, revealing a small glass bottle. Within it, expertly crafted down to the finest of details, was a ship, gently rocking on a tiny, steel-blue sea. Its twin sails were buoyed with an imaginary wind. As it crested each of the waves before it, James could almost imagine a tiny little crew scurrying across the matchstick planks of the three decks, or clambering up the spiderweb riggings to tend to the great mainsail. A captain at the helm, commanding his sailors. Or, perhaps not sailors, perhaps, students…

He snatched up the bottle and ran to the nearest window.

'The clue!' Tristan cried, aghast.

James held the figurine up against the glass. The last of the sun's light had all but left the valley, but the moon was pregnant and full, hanging low over the rooftops of the castle. It shone with an ethereal glow sufficient to silhouette the hulking figure of the Durmstrang ship bobbing gently atop the surface of the Black Lake.

The others scrambled to follow him, their eyes following James' own gaze, recognition slowly dawning.

'It could be…' Clip breathed.

'The shape is pretty close. But the sails are off,' Fred added. 'They're plain white.'

'Pass it here,' Tristan urged, and James handed it over. Tristan tilted it upright, so that he was looking at a spot on the hull, just above the waterline. A tiny black spot, the faintest scarification against the timbers was present. It could have been merely a trick of the light, had he not known where to look. 'That's it alright.'

'And you can tell from that… is that a squid?' Fred asked, squinting.

'A handprint,' Tristan corrected. 'That's definitely the ship.

'Is it some sort of secret code between you and your lover-spy?' Clip goaded. 'Did anyone check for a love note in the box?'

It was the quickest James had moved in twenty-four hours, dashing back to his bed towards the discarded box. All four boys clambered and elbowed and swore, but Tristan was the largest and the strongest, and he emerged with trophy in hand. The attempted subtle manoeuvre of a thin sheet of parchment into his pocket and out of sight fooled none of the other three gathered.

'There is!' gasped Clip.

'Get it!' Fred roared.

' _Accio_ love note!' James tried, but in vain.

'Chloe is going to be _so_ mad when she finds out,' Fred threatened. But Tristan didn't take the bait.

'It's business, not pleasure. My… associates like to be kept private, that's all.'

'They like a private snog, more like it.'

'So the Hogwarts Kitchens, the Beauxbatons Faculty and the Durmstrang ship,' Tristan hurried to change the subject. 'Those are our three clues. What do they mean?'

'Something from each School, is it a clue about the tournament?' Fred suggested.

The group bounced ideas off of one another. James remained quiet for a long while. They liked to joke about Tristan's secret lover knowing where the book was hidden, but there had only been one other person who actually _could_ have known its fate. One who wasn't talking to them now. One who, if James found out now possessed a romantic engagement with another of their group, might have brought forth some… complicated feelings. But she wouldn't, would she? More to the point, would _Tristan?_

'Oh shit.' James suddenly swore. 'Merlin's sweaty, smelly, unwashed-'

'Gross.'

'I know what it means.'

'What?!' chorused three eager voices.

It was _very_ like her. So clever, so Slytherin. He didn't know many others who possessed the cunning nor the stealth to pull it off. How she'd managed it… Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps someone else _could_ have done it. That was a conversation he didn't look forward to having. There was still a chance. But about the clues, he was certain. Professor Longbottom had practically gifted him the answer when they'd last spoke.

'The book. It's on the Durmstrang ship. Or at least, it _will_ be. Perhaps just for a day. The day that Renshaw, and I guess by extension Hogwarts, hosts the heads of Beauxbatons to a very important diplomatic dinner aboard the ship to try and mend ties over the whole Tournament scandal.'

'Ho- _ly,'_ Clip gasped.

'Well I'll be…' Tristan breathed, in awe.

But Fred… Fred was smiling like a madman. His ear-to-ear grin set his eyes to twinkling, and in the fading light his teeth winked and glinted, pearly white.

'I told you,' he whispered. His voice was stretched taut with barely-contained excitement. 'I told you I'd get on that boat. Now I'm going to give Pot-Face the payback those Greys deserve!'

* * *

Three weeks to the day since the events at Hogsmeade, James received a note in the middle of one of Zoe Meadow's less exciting Defence classes. It was unsigned, but clearly written in Renshaw's hand. He bolted out towards the Hospital Wing without so much as a farewell, knowing exactly what it must mean.

The arrival of April had well and truly dispatched with the last of anything that could be called remotely pleasant weather. Sheets of rain drifted in across the Black Lake, hurling themselves against the unflinching walls of the castle like some unending legion of soldiers. The constant patter lent some life to the otherwise empty, sterile environs of the Hospital Wing. Stark and unadorned as ever, the echo of James' footsteps was swept away by the downpour. A muted grey light soaked through from the sky above, serving only to further scrub colour away from the pale sheets and bare, lifeless floors.

Against her pallid sheets and pale pillows, the fiery spill of Rain's red-gold hair was the sole point of colourful defiance that the room possessed. A gap in the curtains surrounding her bed allowed James to see through to where she lay, propped up and sipping slowly from a steaming cup.

James dashed to her bedside, suddenly afraid Madam Petheridge would appear and take this moment from him, or Renshaw would sour it with deception and lies and false questions. He tore the curtain closed, as if that flimsy barrier would offer them anything more than the illusion of privacy.

She was sleepy and sedate. Her movements were sluggish, but the moment her eyes found his, they shot open with a bright injection of life. She spilled half of her drink in haste to set it aside, and threw her arms open. Nausea be damned, James leapt to her side with relief, wrapping her up in an all-encompassing hug and lifting her almost free of the bed.

There was a moment – as he had expected – where he felt like he was teetering over the edge of an endless drop. His stomach lurched and swirled, his balance seemed to falter, and a feeling of dread and nerves and looming potential threatened to swallow him whole. As if he were contemplating stepping forward, falling into the chasm and losing himself in the darkness that yawned. He wrestled with it for several long, drawn out seconds, and placed a hand on the bed for support, before they disentangled themselves from one another, and all was right again.

The pair of them were both grinning like first-years with their Hogwarts letter. The relief, the bond of a harrowing shared experience, that new link in the chain of their friendship that tied them was forged tight and hard and sure. Brown eyes met sea-green, and so much passed between them that wasn't words. After all of the things he'd planned to ask, or to say. Just to see that she was alive, and _smiling,_ was enough.

But the events of Hogsmeade had left their mark. All of the weight that Rain had put on earlier in the year was gone. It left her with a slightly loose, deflated appearance. More haggard than healthy. Her skin remained darkened from the sun, as it had after the Christmas holidays from her time abroad. But now, it looked weather-worn and tired. Like an old farmer who had spent his lifetime outdoors. There were creases at the corners of her eyes that did not belong on the face of a fourteen year old girl.

And as for the eyes themselves… Tiny flecks of dull, muted gold now swam in the familiar green. Even as James looked, holding steady to the bedside to fight off the vertigo, he saw them dance and glimmer in the light. It gave her gaze a molten, glowing appearance that was unsettlingly close to the burning gold he had seen once before…

'Do not fear, James Potter. I am still me. As much as I ever was, at least.' James chastised himself for the flicker of embarrassment in her gaze.

'Of course. I just- it's been a while. I had – I _have_ so many questions. Are you-? Did they-?'

'No, James Potter, I am not Infected. One of the benefits of having such a… delicate and complicated magical make-up, it seems, is that the sickness poses no threat to me.'

James felt his shoulders sag with relief. A knot in his chest he had been carrying for three weeks now slowly released itself, and for the first time, he was able to breathe easy.

'Then what _was_ it? What happened back there?' For three weeks, he'd been working on the phrasing of that question. He'd come up with nothing more delicate or clever in that time.

'I think that it is a story best told on paper, James Potter. At least at first. For I have not the energy to recite it all as I lay here. I have started a diary, of sorts. A gift that I will give to you when the time comes that may explain a great many things that you wish to know. And that time may be sooner than you think. But for now, I shall say only this: Power comes with a price. Take a care with whom you bargain – and what you give away – to gain it.'

James smiled and nodded, understanding. For almost three years he'd been yet to glean a straight answer from a pointed question about Rain's mysteries. He hadn't _really_ figured that was about to change, now. 'So what next? When are you allowed out of here?'

'Not so hasty, James Potter. The kindly matron has set a strict watch upon me. Whereby I cannot so much as rise to use the facilities without eight dozen offers of assistance. The more embarrassing fact is that I actually need them. I've a ways to go to regain my strength yet, it would seem.'

'Of course... Sorry.'

'You, of all people, need not be.'

'They say Alder was out in the hills around Hogsmeade. That's why the Infected were there. I think maybe he's trying to break into Hogwarts to steal an ingredient for a cure for the Infected.' James eyed her sidelong as she processed the information. He pretended to nonchalantly play with a corner of her sheets.

'And what does your father think about this theory?' Rain asked pointedly. Her face was impassive.

James shrugged. 'Doesn't know, does he. He's off on some secret mission on the other side of the world.'

'Renshaw informed me of her version of events earlier today.'

'You spoke with her?'

'We had a most… discomforting discussion this morning. She certainly has a way of making one feel… hunted. She is simply salivating to interrogate me. And so, she informed me, are the Ministry. Though I imagine they'd be less friendly.'

James could see her biting the inside of her cheek. A new sign of nervousness. For her, it was akin to breaking out in cold sweats. He decided to not press the issue.

'I- we've all missed you,' James told her instead. Suddenly, he felt a little embarrassed for the amount of times he'd come to her bedside just to vent about Quidditch or school or, occasionally, Odette. He hoped to Merlin she hadn't actually _heard_ any of it.

'Do you know the feeling before a storm? That smell in the air, when you can just sense the rain clouds gathering. Everything is still and poised. Coiled.'

'I- yes… I guess.' He called it Edge weather. The worst type of weather to play Quidditch it. It felt as if everything teetered upon a knife edge.

'I feel it now. Here, around me. Building up into something terrible. Like somebody has flicked the first domino which will eventually topple everything that I have. But I will not know that it has happened until it is too late. It… it scares me, James Potter. Like nothing else has before.'

While her tone remained casual and conversational, her words were far from matter-of-fact. And the way that she pulled the blankets tight around her chin, and the flightiness that crept in to her eyes spoke to her overwhelming fear far more eloquently than words.

'I won't let it happen,' James assured her. 'I promise. Whatever it is, I'll be by your side.'

'Thank you,' she whispered. 'What have I done to be given the gift of your friendship?'

She smiled at him as she took a sip from her tea. James could see her hands shaking slightly. Her breathing was becoming more slow and laboured. She was tiring already from the meagre exertion of the conversation alone. But he had one more question to ask – this time not something he had been planning for weeks, but an idea that was only now beginning to take seed in his mind.

'What if I could help get rid of the Infected? If there might be a way to cure them once and for all, then would all of this…' he gestured about their heads. '…this storm, would it blow over?'

Her eyes were inquisitive, but guarded. Sceptical. 'What do you know, that you have kept from me, James Potter?'

'Me? Nothing, but if Alder really _is_ out there in the Forest, and he's hunting for a way to get the _Sanocultus_ Sap, then I could-'

'You will do no such thing.' Her voice was firm and direct. 'I forbid it, James Potter. I will not have you put yourself at risk for my sake.'

'But it could cure the Infected _and_ get Renshaw and the Ministry off of your back. I saw what it did to you, fighting them in Hogsmeade. Merlin, I saw what it did to _them!_ It might solve all of our problems in one!' He couldn't help but raise his voice slightly. A clinking of glass came from the back room.

'My word on this is final, James Potter. I _will not_ be disobeyed.' Even weak as she was, her voice held a strong echo of the surety and power that defined her. The confidence and command that she had borne like a garment from the moment she sat so gracefully on the Stool of Sorting almost three years ago.

'And I'll not sit by while one of my friends is hunted like an animal. In three months we'll be out of here. Then what? You spend the holidays running from Infected and who knows what?'

Rain's sigh was one so heavy and tired that she may well have been carrying the fate of the entire world around with her. Her eyes flickered between resigned, a deep, open melancholy and something that almost seemed triumphant.

'What if, James Potter, instead of going to Alder, you were able to bring him to us?'

The dozen angry responses James had been preparing melted away instantly. A slow, goofy smile instead spread across his face. As Rain gestured for him to lean closer, her eyelids already drooping from fatigue, James cast a glance around to make sure nobody else was present as she divulged the beginnings of a plan.

Later that evening, James had the rest of the group gathered around the end of the Gryffindor house table in the Great Hall. Dinner had long since finished, and, barring their small knot of activity, the room was a sea of calm. A few sluggish students slowly picked at the last remaining plates of desserts, eating themselves slowly into a coma before staggering off to bed, clutching at sides or bellies, looking back with a mixture of loathing and regret.

Only one in five of the candles floating above their heads was lit. Most of the light came from the fires crackling away in their grates. Shadows nipped playfully in between the group, lending their stillness a sense of urgency it had not earned.

'I know what we need to do,' James said eagerly, looking around at those gathered. There were more than a few heavy-lidded eyes, and Cat had stuffed nearly an entire fist in her mouth in an attempt to stifle a massive yawn.

'We _need_ to sleep,' Fred mumbled. His forehead was down, flat against the tabletop. Clip had balanced a half-full goblet of pumpkin juice atop the back of his head. James was quite interested to see how he would extricate himself from the situation.

'In a minute,' James waved off Fred's grumblings before they could gather momentum. The rest of the group had been to visit Rain that day. In ones and twos, only for a short while; as long as her strength would allow. Cassie had been with her the longest. She'd emerged, tear-streaked and relieved, to give James as big a hug as her tiny frame would allow. The emotion was still burning, with all of them. He needed to strike while the iron was hot to get Rain's plan to work.

'We are _quite_ exhausted,' Cassie replied. She'd briefly nodded off, using her book as a pillow, and had been busy unsticking the page from her face, where she'd been drooling slightly, when she thought nobody was looking.

'In a _minute,'_ James repeated. And he laid out the bones of what Rain had said to him, huddled together over her hospital bed. He gave them just enough insight into what they faced to hopefully rouse their passion. He watched as their faces went from disinterest, to rapt attention, to outright shock by the time he had finished speaking. 'Well?' he concluded, slightly breathless. His eyes darted between them, trying to gauge their responses before they spoke.

'Merlin's old socks mate, you're not asking much,' Fred exclaimed to the floor. Much to Clip's delight, he'd still not managed to remove the cup, despite several failed levitating charms.

'Stealing from a teacher must be breaking about twenty-odd rules in one fell swoop,' Tristan added dubiously.

'Seventeen, actually,' Cassie corrected him. 'Eighteen if one of us does it dressed as a Cornish Pixie.'

'Why would…?'

'Not to mention Greenhouse Six is a bit creepy at the best of times,' Fred added.

'Oh, that's because of the Thestrals,' Cat explained as if they were all stupid.

'Oh, really?' Cassie asked, one eyebrow was quirked dangerously.

'Of course. It's where the young ones shelter if they get lost from the herd. On rainy nights, the back door is always unlocked so they can hide from the rain. People don't like it because, well… they leave a bit of a deathy aura behind. Like a really bad Black day, you know? But they're not spooky creatures. Just… misunderstood.'

' _Riiiight,'_ Cassie nodded. Knowing her, James figured it would have been taking all of the self-control she possessed to not be rolling her eyes at that very moment. 'Either way, I'm not breaking in to a greenhouse to steal a highly regulated substance from a teacher. The very prospect of so much illicit activity is making me light-headed.'

'I'm kind of with Cassie on this one,' Clip added. He wouldn't quite meet James' eyes as he said it. 'Particularly the part about trying to bait the possibly-crazy, definitely-fugitive Dorian Alder out into the open.'

'But Hogwarts is the only place he'll be safe!' James protested. 'Renshaw is fighting the Ministry on this. She's protecting Rain. She'll protect him.'

'But what if it's _him_ we need protecting from? Look at what the mere rumour of his presence did in Hogsmeade. We could have a riot of Infected descending on the school.'

'Hogwarts is a fortress compared to Hogsmeade,' James countered. 'They'd never get in.'

'Sorry mate, a siege of Infected hammering down the gates isn't something I want to get involved in. I'm out.'

James looked to Tristan for support. His grimace betrayed his words before his mouth even opened.

'Sorry mate. Much as I love a good adventure, stealing's not really my cup of tea. Not really the Hufflepuff thing, you know? Besides, I'm already in a bit of hot water with the Hufflepuff brass as it is. Might be best to lie low for a while.'

With hope fast slipping away, the whole group turned to stare at the top of Fred's head. A moment of silence stretched.

'Oh, it's my turn? Yea it's a no from me too. Professor Longbottom is like family. Those things are like his babies. It'd be like… kidnapping your cousin, or something. Wait – don't get any ideas.'

'Well, I would quite like to see the Thestrals…' Cat began.

' _Thank you!'_ James cried, relieved.

'… but I felt all tingly and gross when you mentioned the plan, like… like it was going to be a bad idea. So I think I'm out, too. Sorry James.'

'You sure it wasn't just a bad pumpkin pasty? Merlin knows, you only ate about thirty.'

'A growing girl needs to eat,' Cat huffed, crossing her arms and putting an end to that conversation.

'Come _on,_ ' James pleaded. 'If we don't do something, Rain could be in danger. She said so herself.'

'She _thinks_ that something bad _might_ happen, I believe were your words,' Clip countered apologetically. 'The girl does have a _slight_ flair for the dramatic.'

'You would too if you were kidnapped and chained to the Heart of Hogwarts, or a band of ancient ice zombies came chasing after you!'

'James, Renshaw isn't just going to abandon Rain. You've seen yourself, she was the one who saved us. The one who saved _Rain,_ last year. Whatever else you have to say about her, she protects her students. She won't let anything bad happen, _if_ anything bad is going to happen.'

Cassie lay a hand on his elbow gently, signalling his defeat. He hung his head, glaring down at the grain of the wood in the table before him. 'Fine,' he muttered.

A collective sigh rippled through the group. Soon after, they all got up to leave for bed. 'Some help you were.' James growled, when only he and Fred remained. He jabbed his wand at the cup of pumpkin juice balanced atop his head and grinned evilly at Fred's answering yelp. A thick trace of gloopy, orange liquid was slowly running down his neck.

Frustrated and alone, James let the Hall empty out around him. Soon he was the only one left. The echo of his friends' rejection was all he had as company.

Or so he thought.

A figure stepped forward, directly _out_ of the roaring fireplace nearest James. No flash of Floo powder was evident, no lurid green glow or wash of smoke and ash. The figure appeared to be wrought in flame, and for a second, James had terrible visions of Fiendfyre and worse. His heart leapt to his throat, and his hand to wand, but a sudden, almost familiar coughing fit doused his fears.

 _Pot Head?_

Sans his favoured headdress, but it was unmistakeably he. His wide, mischievous smile shone through an ash-streaked face. His eyes gleamed pearly and malevolent in the darkness. He had disturbed a streamer of smoke as he stepped forth, which wafted lazily in among the candles, before shifting to pool _downwards_ upon the floor, where it resolved into a pair of the shadowy figures from Durmstrang known as _Tishna._

James raised one eyebrow quizzically at the trio. His hand still hovered only inches from his wand.

'Relax, friend,' Pot-Head grinned. Even his teeth were marred by ash and soot. 'We are here to help.'

'How?' James asked, hesitant.

'Well, it would seem that you have something to steal, but no resources to steal it. While I have so many resources, but nothing to steal. It would be good for us to show some… Inter-School Co-operation, no?'

'And what's in it for you?'

Pot-Head held his hands wide, a picture of sooty innocence. 'Why nothing… yet. I just figure, that if there is ever somebody to owe you a favour, that somebody might just be James Potter. Always an even exchange, friend.'

James considered it for all of half a heartbeat before extending his hand. The grinned at each other happily. The _Tishna_ pair disappeared into the shadows like the smoke they had come from. Seconds later, the heavy oak doors to the Hall ground shut, the sound of a thick wooden bar falling in to place to lock them as such.

'Now, let us talk, James Potter. The night is still young. Let me tell you how I shall achieve this feat.'


	23. Suspicious Sorting & Flustered Friends

James dove to the floor as a sizzling jet of spellfire zinged over his head. It left a trail of smoke and the scent of burnt hair in its wake. Wooden floorboards were remorseless against his shoulder. He rolled, twice. Felt open air to his right. The narrow dais only provided so much space.

' _Protego!'_ a wobbly shield charm offered him only a second's cover. Enough to stand. A second spell shattered it with the sound of a clanging gong. It reverberated deep in James' chest.

' _Impedimenta!'_ his spell was slashed aside. His opponent's incantations too clipped and short to make out. Short, fast, and hot. Like his gestures, his footwork, and the one spell he favoured – foreign to James no longer, as the dozen burning gashes across his body now could now attest to.

James had to cast _Imminuum_ on another spell that sought to find home around his midriff. A gaping rip in his robes already spoke to the efficacy. Like being punched in the stomach by an angry, flaming giant.

His chest was heaving with exertion. A few tendrils of fear and self-doubt were beginning to creep into his movements. The slightest hesitation here, or the wrong spell there. A jumble of misplaced ropes slapped uselessly against the barriers to their enclosure – tribute to a mistimed and misplaced spell.

With his solid build, casual, confident athleticism and vast array of spells unknown to James, his Beauxbatons opponent was clearly the better duellist. Perhaps one of their finest, if the way the Blues had crowded around him and pandered over his every move before their duel was anything to go by. It was becoming apparent that James was a long way out of his depth.

But James had a furnace of righteous fury burning on his side.

He took a hit to the shoulder from one of his opponent's fiery spells. He braced for the pain as stars burst into his vision. His body rocked around, teeth and bones jarring. But the blast was the only opportunity he had to cast in the moments between the onslaught. His burning hatred allowed him to fight through the searing pain.

' _Flipendo!'_

His voice was hoarse and scratchy. The spell caught the Blue off guard. Weak though it was, it staggered him half a second. His response shot high and wide, fizzing against the barriers behind.

' _Impedimenta!'_

James pressed the attack. A hasty Shield shattered with the sound of breaking glass. A puff of smoke at the impact clouded his opponent's vision.

' _Rictusempra!_ That- _Tarantallegra!_ Will- _Reducto!_ Teach- _Locomotor Mortis!_ You- _Petrificus Totalus!_ Tosnogodette!'

On the last, James simply lowered his wand and roared as a jet of burning orange light erupted forth, burning through the Blue's wobbly, feeble defences, enveloping him, and leaving him as a writhing, twitching pile of limbs on the floorboards when the light cleared. His mouth was gaping soudlessly like a fish, and a pair of tentacles had sprouted from his robes, just beneath his arms. James' eyes were wild, and all that stopped him from continuing was the sudden wall of noise as the barriers collapsed. A mixture of laughter and applause from the crowd.

Slowly, the fugue lifted. He saw Fred and Tristan rushing to congratulate him, their face a mixture of deeply impressed and – weirdly – mortally embarrassed. James struggled to remember the last few minutes of the duel.

'Bloody hell!' Fred roared with laughter.

Tristan, less kindly, put on a grotesque mask of rage and wildly brandished an invisible wand. ' _Get your hands off Odette!'_ he cried, high-pitched and mocking.

James, who'd been laughing along as he embraced them both suddenly pulled up short.

'Wait- what?' his eyes darted between the pair. Both were failing very badly at holding in fits of laughter.

'You- you don't remember?' Fred tentatively asked.

'Remember what?'

They gleefully told him about the final moments of the duel. James felt his mouth drop open. He looked around the room desperately, hoping that the floor might open up and swallow him whole. Suddenly, all of the snide, amused look she was getting were making sense.

'No…' he breathed, mortified.

'Yes,' Fred grinned. 'A thousand times yes.'

'Did he even- I mean was he-?'

'Did he snog her? Beats me,' Tristan shrugged. 'But it's a fair bet. The way I heard it, she, er… blazed a bit of a trail through the Blues, in an attempt to make old Loyal jealous.'

'Ugh… not helping,' James groaned.

'I'll be honest mate, I'm not really trying to help.' Tristan reverted to his wild mockery of James' duelling, while Fred started chasing after every blonde girl in the room. James' cheeks and ears were on fire, and it was a welcome relief when Professor Meadows broke up the pairs' little charade.

'You two should consider a career in the theatre,' she said, mock-impressed. 'Or at least the circus.' She was looking a little harried; her hair was frazzled, her eyes a little wild. Almost as if organising over a hundred twelve-to-fourteen year olds to fight one another was something akin to hard work.

'Thank you, Professor,' James said, relieved.

'Oh, don't thank me. I've just spoken to Miss Mansfield about a "Hands off Odette" poster to hang in the Defence classroom. I think it shall be quite fetching.'

The queasy feeling that was writhing in James' stomach was threatening to boil over. 'I hate you all.'

Bright teeth shone through in a wicked smile. The professor wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 'Come on, I'm here to escort you to your next duel. As it turns out, taking down one of their prized Duellists hasn't earned you a wealth of friends among the Beauxbatons students.'

Sure enough, when James cast his eyes over towards a knot of Blues gathered in the corner of the room, he received no fewer than a dozen murderous glares in return for the effort.

'Right. Well, then.'

'He didn't, by the way.'

'Who?'

'That Beauxbatons student. Daniel Blanchard. He was never… involved with Miss Mansfield, shall we say.'

'Ah. Probably feels a bit hard done by, then.'

'You can ask him, once they finish transfiguring the tentacle in his mouth back to a tongue.'

They both shared a grossed-out look, and a bout of private laughter as they moved through the crowd. A small gathering of Blues, clearly intent on starting trouble, dissipated beneath Professor Meadows' warning scowl. The looks they shot James as they moved on could have curdled his morning pumpkin juice, but with the professor's hand across his back, none dared make a move. There was the towering reputation of her temper to contend with, after all.

It soon became apparent to James where they were headed: towards the Great Hall, and the main stage.

'Am I-'

'Check your paper,' Meadows replied. James acquiesced.

The small sheet of parchment was crinkled and folded almost so that he couldn't make out his own name scribbled on the left-hand margin. As he stared, a second name began to form: his next opponent.

 _Holly Brooks._

'Oh. Shit.'

'Mister _Potter-'_

'Sorry. I just-' but James paused. Professor Meadows was smiling, ever so slightly. She was pointedly avoiding his gaze. ' _You!_ Did you know? Did you plan this?'

'I couldn't possibly know what you mean.'

'This is _your_ tournament. You set me up!'

'Nonsense. I don't choose the opponents, it's all arranged by a Sorting Charm. It's magic.'

James' scowl deepened. They'd just entered the Great Hall. Holly, standing triumphant at the far end of the dais, held a small scrap of parchment in her own hand, identical to James'. Her face was a turmoil of shock and something darker, more foreboding. Their eyes meet for a nervous moment.

' _Who's_ magic? James growled from the corner of his mouth.

'Well… I suppose now you mention it… mine.' With a final clap on the shoulder, and a parting wink, Professor Meadows limped off to take her place and begin the duel. James was forced to ascend the dais alone, a pair of once-familiar grey eyes boring into him the entire time.

'Erm… hi Holly,' he offered as he mounted the stage. Had there been this many people in the stands earlier?

'Potter.' The way she spat his name – not even his _first_ name – was awkward and jarring and felt like a slap in the face.

He shuffled his feet uncertainly, and drew his wand. It was only now he realised the wealth of cuts and gashes covering his robes. He'd forgot to see the students acting as medics between duels.

Professor Meadows stamped on to the middle of the dais. She shot James a secret thumbs-up, and a shared a knowing nod with Holly. On her signal, the pair bowed. The moment she left the arena, the barriers sprung to life, and the duel began.

It was mostly anger and desperation that kept James in it for the first few minutes. Anger at Holly, for stubbornly refusing to make nice. Anger at himself, trying to cover the embarrassment he still felt from his final duel. Even a little bit of anger at Zoe Meadows – there was no way that the two were facing off now by accident.

He tried frantically to keep up with Holly's movements – he'd seen her fight before. He knew her style, or at least something of it. The way she flitted in and out of the shadows. The uncanny ability she possessed to always be on the fringes of his vision, never quite coalescing to the focus of his attention. Skirting around peripheries and suggestions of her position, striking from places she had no physical right to be.

But it was futile, really. She gracefully flowed in between dozens of his spells. And when she conjured a great wind that blew most of the candles in the hall to extinction, James could already see the writing on the wall. The remaining few flames flickered and sputtered beneath the onslaught. Hundreds reduced to tens, and the shadows in between their lights lengthened. Each one menacing with the promise of defeat.

In truth, he had no idea how she eventually got behind him. One moment, he was trying to make out her form among a dark corner of the arena, the next, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his knee as his legs were kicked out from behind.

He awoke a few moments later to the face of a slightly apologetic Zoe Meadows poring over him. She was biting her lower lip a little uncertainly, but relief took over when James stirred. He refused her offer of assistance to stand, simply favouring her with his darkest scowl as he made his wobbly way off of the dais. He shrugged off the attentions of a Hufflepuff seventh-year with the lime-green Medi-witch armband. Despite the fact that he was still seeing about three of her.

'James, wait!' He halted, secretly relieved. He'd been about three paces away from stamping his way right into a particularly unforgiving section of stone wall.

'Come to gloat, _Brooks?_ ' He saw her flinch. She at least had the good grace to look ashamed.

'I just wanted to make sure you're fine,' she mumbled. She looked away, busying herself by freeing her hair from the cowl she wore for duelling. Her loose black silks reflected the candlelight mutely.

'Well aren't you just a gem,' James growled. He pointedly didn't look at the section of wall he'd been about to march into. Holly's hair was loose and flowing. For some reason that annoyed him further. It should be in a braid. _That_ was Holly. This… this was someone else. She was pretending to be someone she wasn't.

'There's no need to be so nasty.'

 _And there was no need to try so hard to embarrass me in front of your friends,_ James thought. But he didn't say it aloud. He'd seen their laughter and jeering. The ones that followed Holly around, practically worshipped the ground she walked on. It made James sick.

'Must have got out the wrong side of bed,' he said to a spot on her shoulder.

'James…' she started. He could see her body tense, as she built up for something. 'I… I miss-'

'Come on, Holly. Ditch him!' called a fourth-year Slytherin that James didn't recognise. He had dark eyes and a wide, heavy brow. The look he gave Holly was more a leer than anything else.

Her body sagged at the interruption. Like she'd lost something vital. Some critical momentum she had been building internally had been dashed by the stupid, leering Slytherin.

'Go on, then,' James sighed. 'Ditch me. Run on back to your _pals._ '

'You know what, James? Maybe I will. At least _they_ aren't constantly glowering and moody. They don't make me try and feel bad every hour of the day.'

'That's because they're after one thing Holly. Even I can see that. All they want is a litte-'

'I know very well what you _think_ they want,' she spat. 'And I'm _perfectly_ capable of handling myself, thank you very much.'

She'd raised her voice enough now that a few curious onlookers were shooting them sidelong glances. The next duel had started, but even the muted bangs and crashes of spellfire weren't sufficient to draw the attention away.

'I just don't like them,' James mumbled, glaring in their direction. No fewer than five of them were caught trying to look equal parts intimidating and obnoxious. 'And it's not like you.'

'O-ho, now _that_ is rich!'Holly was practically yelling now. More of the spectators in the stands were staring at them than the ongoing duel, now. They were positioned perfectly, at the base of the stands, framed by the exit to the Entrance Hall. A little clear space had developed around them. 'While we're on the subject, why don't you go toddle off crying after Odette Mansfield? Moping about after the mess of a trail she leaves you, just enough to keep you interested while she pisses your attentions away with the next in a long line of pathetic sops, laughing behind your back as you still don't realise the butt of this whole, fucked-up joke is _you._ Now _that_ is not like the James Potter that I know.'

'The James Potter you _knew,'_ he spat, turning on his heel and storming from the room. The murmur of gossip and whispers that followed him only made him wish there was a door to slam on the lot of them.

And in a far corner of the Great Hall, where neither one could see her, Zoe Meadows looked on at the exchange in helpless exasperation.

The following weekend – the last one in what had been a mild April – brought with it an uncharacteristic wintry storm. It also brought the students of Hogwarts and their guests the second-last Quidditch match of the Junior Triwizard Championship.

Ava Adams had declared that the Hogwarts team would watch the match together. Their fate in the tournament was to be decided on the pitch today, and she wanted everyone together to console one another, or to celebrate together should it come to that.

'D'you reckon the Blues would notice if I swapped out all their brooms with old Cleansweeps?' Fred asked James as they hurried down the Grand Staircase together. A mid-flight staircase change had sent them rambling through the west wing of the castle for a good few minutes, and now they were late to join the team, who were meeting in the Entrance Hall pre-match.

'I remember dad saying Voldemort tried to jinx his broom when he was in first year. You reckon we could give that a go?'

'Should have asked Hagrid if he still had that Rogue Bludger,' Fred agreed.

'Never thought I'd end up as a Durmstrang supporter.' James waved his little grey flag as they leapt a burgeoning gap in the staircase once again. They seemed intent on stopping the pair from making it to the Great Hall on time.

When they finally did arrive, it was amidst a steady flow of students heading out towards the grounds. The open doors that led to the courtyard outside were shuddering under the violent wind. Lashing raindrops did their best to buffet even those yet to brave the cold, driving almost sideways in through the portal and pooling in treacherous little puddles atop the flagstones. Chatter was scarce, as most energies were focused inwards, each student set on building up the necessary conviction that yes, in fact, they were mad enough to head out in such frightful weather. James pulled his black Hogwarts team jacket a little tighter around himself in anticipation.

'Looks like we missed the bus,' Fred sighed. Nowhere was there a small knot of deep black amongst the sea of grey and lesser blue. Everyone who wasn't a Beauxbatons student was supporting Durmstrang, today. They were Hogwarts' only hope.

James scanned the crowd from a few steps up. Hoods were up and heads were down all over the place, as the hesitant stream of humanity made its way into the elements. It was only because of the sea of muted colours that he noticed it – a flash of strawberry blonde hair, just tall enough to be noticed, and moving in the opposite direction.

Unwilling to alert Fred, he followed it with his eyes. The slender frame, honey-dark skin. If those eyes had looked upwards, instead of downcast and flighty, he would have almost been able to see their sea-green colour.

'Wait here a minute, I need to… go to the bathroom,' he told Fred, leaping down the steps to follow Rain. The door she was making for led towards the lower dungeons. He could hazard a damned good guess as to where she was headed.

'And just where do you think you're going, Potter?'

Odette Mansfield seemed to materialize out of thin air, appearing before him and swiftly blocking his path. He peered past over her shoulder. He could still see Rain's red hair – just – through the crowd, but she was disappearing fast, making a beeline for the unused door to the dungeons.

'I just want to- just be a minute-' he stammered. Odette turned just as Rain slipped through the door. Whatever she had thought James' intentions were, it made her disposition sour instantly.

'Not on my bloody watch,' she growled, grabbing James by the collar and pointing directly at Fred where he stood, a picture of wide-eyed innocence halfway up the stairway. She marched the pair of them out the door and across the grounds without a further word. Neither was afforded the time to pull their hoods up, and so James' ears were numb by the time they made their way to the seats reserved for the team, right up the front of the Gryffindor stand on halfway.

Somehow, as the three made to join their teammates, Odette managed to slip between James and Fred. It was at the very last minute, so that James was sat on the edge of the row, stuck between a gathering of Blues on the far side of the aisle, and a scowling Odette Mansfield on his other side. Both looked about equally happy at his presence.

As the tip-off occurred and the game got underway, James found himself unable to focus wholly on the proceedings. The waves of nerves and apprehension he had carried into the stadium that had harried him and gnawed away at his surety for the past weeks following their own loss to Durmstrang seemed secondary to the discomfort that Odette's silent presence brought.

She would sit, occasionally muttering to herself 'oh, you're an idiot,' or 'what a stupid move' as she watched the game, ignoring his presence completely. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair no fewer than three times. He shot her a volley of sidelong glances to check if she was secretly studying him as well. He barely even registered when the entirety of Hogwarts and Durmstrang went up in celebration as the Greys scored the first goal of the match.

He had almost felt physically ill that morning, contemplating the outcome of the match. He hadn't been looking forward to it at all. But he wasn't sure that this awkward, uncertain substitute was any better of a fate.

Their shared proximity forced his mind to drift back to Holly's harsh words. Had she spoken true, and all Odette was interested in was leading him along for her own pleasure? It certainly felt that way, at times. Particularly when everyone was watching. But the thing that drew him in, again and again, was the moments they shared when it was just the two of them. Short conversations in the locker room when they were the last two left, studying plans and strategies after Quidditch practice. Conversations stilted and halting, but charged with tension and energy so palpable he often felt he could reach out and grab it. The way she laughed so freely and openly when they shot through the skies at night, the only two left alone on the pitch. Or the way their eyes would always find one another across the room at mealtimes. Just for a moment, but enough to hint at the fact that maybe, just maybe, there was an entirely different side to Odette that she kept hidden for all but those most private of moments.

He just wished he could find some sensible words to _talk_ to her about it. Ten minutes of the match had passed, Beauxbatons had levelled the score, and still he'd been yet to utter a peep. If it had been Fred, there would have been no issue. They'd happily watch long stretches of a match in silence, each studying the way their respective positions played the game, taking mental notes. It was a comfortable silence. This, on the other hand, was anything but.

To busy himself, James dug around in one of his inner pockets and fished out a handful of fluff-coated Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans he'd been saving for a rainy day. He was halfway through picking some of the longer hairs off of their surface before consumption when the crowd around him leapt to their feet at a controversial play on the pitch. Several of his precious Beans scattered across the floor and he was forced to scoop them up hastily before cursing it and just popping the whole handful into his mouth at once.

'I would _not_ have done that,' Odette said.

Panicked, nervous, and entirely on edge, James instantly spat the lump of half-chewed, multi-coloured beans out into his hand in a gloopy, saliva-covered mess. It was around this point that he realised Odette hadn't been talking to him at all.

And, as luck would have it, around the same time that she decided to change that fact.

'Potter- James. Listen, I- I've been thinking- _gross._ What is _that?_ '

James felt his cheeks flush and his ears burn. He tossed the lump of mush over the balcony, trying not to listen out for any forthcoming cries of pain. 'Erm… nothing. What?'

'Never mind,' she said, favouring him with a weird look.

James kicked himself as she turned back around. The sense of an opportunity missed was as clear as a Quaffle dropped straight through open arms. 'Shit' he swore. Right as Durmstrang scored a goal. Odette looked at him like he'd just sprouted another head. He wondered briefly if he'd be better off following his Beans over the edge. Might be a more comfortable fate.

He banished himself to silence for the next few minutes, until he could hold it no longer when a Durmstrang Chaser flew far too wide on an attacking move and missed what ought to have been an easy pass.

'You idiot,' he swore.

'Anyone could have made that catch,' Odette agreed.

'It was a simple Hawks Head formation. The basics.'

'So simple even a Chaser should be able to manage it.'

James shot a look across at Odette. She was still staring fixatedly at the game, but the barest twinkle of mirth was visible in the corner of her eye.

'Perhaps even a Seeker, if they're not too busy napping up there.'

Her face went from scandalised to dumbstruck to a sly, mischievous grin. 'Only when nobody's looking,' she whispered back.

That one, brief moment of banter seemed to have evaporated much of the tension James was feeling. He felt his shoulders tangibly de-knot, and he relaxed into his chair a little more, actually able to focus on the game. He watched the Durmstrang Chasers fly with that same unity and precision they had used to beat Hogwarts a few weeks prior, their movements graceful and fluid in the air. While Beauxbatons, in contrast, were hanging on to the game as if they were dangling from a clifftop by their fingernails. It was a desperate, ugly sort of play. Fraught with nerves and so rough around the edges that at times it was hard to watch, but by the sheer strength of their will alone, they kept themselves in the match and slowly, painfully, began to draw out a lead.

James smashed his fist painfully into the railing before him as the Blues ran in another score, bringing their lead out to four goals. Beside him, Odette was fixated on Loyal, high up, circling the proceedings like a vulture. He tried to tell himself that it was purely professional scrutiny.

'So you were planning on skipping the match, huh?' Odette said, clearly talking to him though her attention remained towards the heavens.

'No. I was just-'

'Following that _Rain_ girl down into the dungeons for a bit of alone time?'

James spun to face her, aghast. But she stubbornly refused to turn around. A slight dusting of colour, high on her cheeks was the only hint that anything was even the slightest out of the ordinary. Even that could have merely been the cold.

 _What does it matter to her?_ James asked himself. She'd only gone and done Merlin-knows-what with half of the Beauxbatons students since Loyal. And each time it seemed she made sure he was there to see it. He was painfully familiar with how it had made him feel.

'Don't see why it matters,' he said, as nonchalantly as possible.

She cracked then. Her head shot around so quick James was surprised she didn't crick her neck. Pale blue eyes scrutinised from behind long, thick lashes. Despite his burgeoning unease, and a reeling sensation that he'd just stepped onto a wild ride he couldn't control, James glared back, impassive.

'You're lying,' she finally told him. Her eyes narrowed, desperately hunting for a reaction.

James simply shrugged. Despite the fact that ignoring Odette Mansfield went against almost every fibre of his being, despite the burning feeling that threatened to overwhelm and spill the traitorous truth, James Potter leaned back in his chair, outwardly content and unfazed. He offered one final Bean from his pocket to Fred, who took it with a wink, and the pair went back to watching the game. Between the two, and for the first time that James could remember, Odette Mansfield looked flustered.

The Durmstrang Seeker eventually managed to swipe the Snitch from Loyal Clavet, before the Blues' lead became insurmountable. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give Hogwarts the barest of chances when they next faced off against Beauxbatons.

But for James, that was only the second biggest win of the day. When Odette went to "accidentally" grab his hand after Loyal nearly caught the Snitch, and after she hugged him for twice as long as anybody else when Durmstrang finally did win, he knew that his gamble had paid off.

James was so busy feeling pleased with himself he almost missed Pot Head gesturing subtly to him as he made his way back up to the castle with the rest of the students. He slipped away the moment Ava pounced on Fred to discuss tactics for their upcoming match, and joined his accomplice beneath a shadowy arch, the pair of them a stationary eddy in the current of humanity flowing upwards to the safety and warmth of the castle walls.

They waited in silence for the majority of students to pass. James wrapped his cloak tight around himself. Bouts of rain came and went, splashing at their feet, never quite reaching into their little sanctuary. The wind, however, more than made up for the failings of its partner in crime. Another layer or three wouldn't have gone amiss, James mused.

'I have for you a gift.' Pot-Head grinned a wide smile.

'So soon?'

'Our _Tishna_ friends, they have a chip on their shoulders, you see? Your… friend makes them eager to prove themselves.'

' _Friend_ is a bit generous,' James muttered darkly. Suddenly, Pot-Head held up a hand to silence him. Footsteps approached.

'…has to be perfect. I need to appease these idiots as quickly as possible. I've enough on my plate as it is.'

Renshaw's voice came into focus above the rain and wind. James panicked. Thoughts of betrayal and worse flicked through his mind, but the footsteps continued, oblivious or uncaring to the gathering of two bedraggled students sheltering from the rain.

Pot-Head waited again, until Renshaw, and the Head of Durmstrang were well out of earshot. He produced a small, glass vial, filled to the brim with a familiar, gluggy liquid, and shook it under James' nose.

'The glass is charmed. Unbreakable, yes?' to prove his point he dashed it against the tiles between them. It merely bounced obediently back up into his hand, unharmed. 'What you do with it is up to you. But I suggest you take a great care to ensure nobody knows you have it. Should it get out that this has gone missing, and you are the one to possess it… I do not imagine that even the son of Harry Potter would be able to talk his way out of that.'

'Course,' James nodded.

'And remember friend, if you are found out, you can be assured that nobody will know that Durmstrang had any part to play in this.'

'Don't worry, I won't tell.'

'We are not worried. We will make sure.'

With only that thinly veiled threat left in the air between them, Pot-head turned and strode out into the rain, down towards the Durmstrang ship. James watched him recede, his fingers clutched tightly around a small glass vial that slowly grew warm in his hands.

* * *

A recent tropical downpour had left the wet earth steaming, and the air so humid that Harry Potter felt he could just about drink it. The scarf wrapped around his heat to stave off the ever-present oppressive sun was drenched through with sweat. A sodden, dirty singlet hung limp and tattered from his frame. Cuts and welts dotted every inch of his exposed skin that wasn't angry and red and peeling from sunburn.

His wand seemed the only thing able to withstand the pressing, close heat of the jungle. He'd oiled it thoroughly before he left. Whether it was that, or some other, unknown magical property that kept it clean he knew not, but he was glad for it, as he slashed yet another wave of hanging vines clear from his path.

Flash flooding, searing sun, and a plague of insects like he had never known, had slowed Harry's progress far beyond anything he had budgeted for. He'd had to pitch up for three nights, wracked by some fearsome fever that he thought for sure would leave him dead, forgotten and wasted away in the middle of this steaming hellhole. He'd woken after three days of terror-filled nightmares to find his waterskin refilled, and a pile of small, fresh fruits at the foot of his makeshift bed. He was almost certain he'd not made the trip to gather them himself.

But now, as he brushed aside a young sapling in his path, as the clearing before him finally revealed what he had hoped to lay eyes upon for countless days now. Waves of relief brought him to his knees. Hours of wasted time, backtracking, plotting his route, marking trees when the path thinned to nothing, searching desperately for landmarks that the jungle had swallowed since last he walked this path. Doubt, uncertainty, and a thousand iterations of the _Point Me_ spell had been his only companions for what felt like weeks now. But at last, he had arrived.

Staggering to his feet, he approached the cave with an almost reverent awe. Veins and leaves drooped down across what could only just be made out as ancient, man-made rock. So badly weathered and moss-coated was it, that it had almost been claimed entirely by nature once more, such was the ever-present urgency of the jungle. A shallow lintel rose, no higher than he was, in a jagged half-circle above a patch of bare, leaf-littered earth. Beneath it yawned a darkness more absolute that it had any right to be, and a cold wind – a reprieve that would have been blessed and welcome, had it not stank with rot and decay so fierce as to catch in the back of Harry's throat, making him gag and retch.

He had returned, finally, to the place where all this had began. This time, to put an end to it.

With lowered wand, he approached the cave cautiously. He knew better than to enter it, now. That hadn't gone so well for Teddy last time around. Whatever he'd seen in there, he'd been unable or unwilling to even speak of when he'd returned, gibbering and half-crazed, from its depths.

He sent a tendril of magic out towards it, probing. Not quite a formed spell, more the promise of one. Primal and untamed, inquisitive. Leaves stirred around the base of the cave, marking his progress. As the magic drew closer, Harry Potter held his breath. Then, with a shrug that nobody was around to see, he reached out and touched it.

Instant pain, blinding. Roaring through his whole body like a torrent, searing his flesh from his skin, flensing his consciousness away until all he knew was the agony. Every fibre, every extremity burned within him. He may have screamed, his body was no longer his, so he did not know. He fought it, but it was too much, and when the darkness came, he welcomed it.

From deep within the dappled shadows of the jungle, a figure looked on, spear in hand. He winced in sympathy as a scream startled every bird within earshot. An inhuman scream. A scream that did not belong to the body that writhed and thrashed on the ground of the clearing.

 _Watch,_ he had been told. _Watch and protect._ Movement in the clearing stilled. The sound of ragged breaths joined the ever-present chorus of insects. The figure in the shadows slowly withdrew. On the way, he pause to stroke another of the familiar, tattered dolls staked to the tree. Here, this close to the sacred place, none had dared defile them, and so, sitting proudly in her darkened eye sockets were two beads of pure, shining gold.


	24. Tall Towers & Tiny Cupboards

_A/N: Apologies for the length delay on posting this chapter - I had rather a lot of life admin to sort out, which left me with very little time for writing. Now that it's finished, we'll be back to a more regular schedule for the last few chapters of this third book - the end is fast approaching!_

* * *

A chill wind charged down from the snow-capped mountains. It raked talons through the last drifts of a dead winter. The palest dusting, clinging stubbornly to the shattered, craggy façade, and was set alight with the setting of the sun. Down the hillside the wind barrelled, and across the Black Lake. Great, beating wings kicked up spume and spray. Angry waves rose in defiance, the Lake itself shaking a fist at such rude disturbance.

Atop the water, the hulking, triple-masted figure of the Durmstrang ship weathered the gale with indifference. It shrugged down, low and squat, letting the water toss itself against the broad, bluff bows. A loose lashing slapped against wood somewhere high above. Every now and then the snap and whoosh of a portion of mainsail, broken free from its tethers, demanded attention.

A pair of figures, not some half-hour past, had stumped up on deck, brandishing wands and jets of lavender light in an attempt to mend the damage. They'd failed in the half-light of the setting sun, and now that the whole valley had sunk into shadow, none were willing to try anew.

And so all three decks had remained still. Lit sparingly by oil lanterns, dangling and wobbling from their hooks, it was a drunken sort of light by which three figures now navigated the unfamiliar surrounds. A single step at a time, in unison. Shuffling, awkward and halting. Had they been visible to the naked eye, they'd have made quite the sight. As they were, beneath a certain Cloak, there was not even a shimmering of light to give them away.

'Ouch, Fred. That was my heel!' James hissed over his shoulder, hopping about as much as their confines would allow.

'Sorry,' Fred shot. 'Clip just elbowed me in the stomach.'

'Because you jabbed my eye with your wand!'

'D'you think we might be getting a bit big for this Cloak?' James asked.

'Quiet,' came the hushed response. 'Someone's coming.'

The three boys instantly fell still, crouching as one, despite their being hidden from any observer. James trod on the edge of the Cloak, paranoid that a sudden gust would whip it above their heads and betray them all.

They were huddled amid a stack of boxes on the main deck. If James guessed it correctly, they were currently a grand total of four paces from the crate, within which, they had smuggled themselves aboard. Fred had had the brilliant idea of tossing out an ornate, wingback chair and placing themselves in the cargo instead. Since then, however, their progress had stalled markedly. They'd wandered the decks in growing frustration for the past quarter hour. For the life of them, they'd been unable to find even the barest hint of a single damned door or entrance to the cabins.

The soft hiss of oiled wood gliding open cut through the fitful crash and splash of the waves, their ears attuned to the sound instantly. From a perfectly ordinary-looking section of cabin wall, a narrow portal appeared. A figure was framed for a moment against the warm light within, before it murmured shut, clipping short a deep rumble of laughter.

'We combed that _exact_ spot,' Clip hissed in frustration.

'Must be hidden by magic,' James growled, then clamped his mouth shut as the newcomer stomped over in their direction.

They dared not so much as breath as he passed within arms' length of their position, on his way to the gunnels. A stench of spicy Firewhiskey and salty sweat washed over them as he passed. Fred gagged silently next to James.

The three shared a look; first confused, and then alarmed as the sound of a zipper preceded a gentle, steady stream of liquid cascading over the edge of the boat. The Durmstrang student was relieving himself into the Black Lake.

'Gross,' Clip whispered.

Fred raised his wand, directing it at the small of the student's back.

'No,' James hissed. 'Do you want to tell _everybody_ we're here? Besides, he might be our only ticket inside. We walked right past that bit of wall and it never opened for us.'

Fred managed to turn sheathing his wand into a sulky gesture.

The three waited for the student to finish his business, before dropping in behind him as he stomped back towards the secret opening, rubbing his hands against the cold.

Once again, the door revealed itself as he approached. James squinted, but the transition of dark, panelled wood was seamless, even under intense scrutiny. The gentle golden glow of the ship's interior bathed them all, and the sound of merriment washed over them, warming against the bitter air.

As the student stepped through, oblivious to their presence, the boys hastened to follow. The door was already gliding shut as they crossed the threshold. Suddenly panicked, one of them trod on the hem of the cloak, causing James to stumble forward. He was unable to stifle the cry of alarm as he tumbled, feeling a shimmery wisp of fabric slide cleanly over his head. He collided with unforgiving floorboards, very much visible.

'Uh oh.'

The figure they had been shadowing turned to face him. The slow march of confusion, hand-in-hand with surprise drew across his face. James briefly thanked Merlin that this one was a _Stroitel,_ and clearly possessed the wits of the average garden gnome. Though he rescinded that when he realised just how close his head was to the Grey's giant, booted foot.

'You are not supposed to be here, small man.' His voice was low and gravelly, but curious. Not threatening – yet.

'I, erm… got lost?'

' _Petrificus Totalus!'_ Twin jets of pale light shot out from Fred and Clip's wands, hammering the Durmstrang student in the broad chest.

'Hey…' he muttered as he began to topple, the twinned spells barely enough to restrain his massive form.

In their panicked state, and now all three fully visible, the boys fired another round into him from point blank range. He went stiff as a board, his sightless eyes managing to look accusing even as they grunted and shoved him unceremoniously into a nearby storage cupboard.

'That was too close,' Clip breathed. His eyes were wild and flighty, and James could see a pulse racing in his neck.

'Quick, grab the Cloak,' James hissed. "We're lucky they're all so rowdy, else someone would have heard the troll fall.'

'Er, about that, mate,' Fred mumbled, and gestured behind them.

Where the door has slid shut – again blending in seamlessly with the ornate, panelled walls – a puddle of liquid silver sat forlornly at the base of it. The Cloak – stuck fast.

'Shit.' James summed up the situation adeptly.

They pried and tugged and swore, even going so far as to cast an array of spells, but neither the Cloak nor the door would budge. As precious minutes burned away, James wondered how long it would be before someone began to miss their troll-like friend and come searching for him. As it was, they were trapped inside the ship with no way out. Except perhaps through a porthole and into the icy depths of the Lake.

'I'll stay here with the Cloak,' Clip suggested. 'I'm the smallest, I can crouch down beneath it. When someone comes, I'll roll out the way, then… come find you, I guess.'

It left James and Fred with the prospect of sneaking through the entire Durmstrang ship out in the open, for anyone to see. He thought about calling it off right there, the risk was too great, there was no way they'd be able to manage it without revealing themselves.

But thoughts of Odette slid through his mind. Of soft sighs and smoky eyes. And the notion that the rewards… perhaps they were worth it.

'Ok,' he nodded, and gestured to Fred. They watched Clip disappear before their eyes and turned, padding softly down the corridor, in search of their prize.

The unfamiliar surrounds made their journey treacherous. Their socked feet whispered across the oiled floorboards, but their age and a lifetime at sea had left many warped and ill-fitting. Squeaks and groans announced their passing at every turn. James' heart stopped every time, but these upper levels seemed nigh-deserted, the bulk of the noise drifted up distant stairwells, from deep within the bowels of the ship.

They found a passage leading down. The light it spilled into their corridor was brighter. Raucous noise came from its depths. It was narrow, spiralling and blind. They could meet someone coming up it, and not know until they were on top of one another.

On the back of a deep, steeling breath, the pair leapt forward into the unknown, taking the stairs three at a time, extra noise be damned.

Approaching footsteps in the corridor below forced them to throw themselves down a darker, narrow passage to their left, the moment they alighted on the landing. This way was dark, twisting, little more than a servant's corridor. No tapestries lined the wall, nor were there windows glimpsing the white caps on the Lake outside. One torch in three was lit, and shadows danced ominously, holding promise of lurking figures within.

They switched to single file, so tight was their passage. As they progressed, the sounds became more distant, until they could barely hear them. James had no idea where they were headed. They needed to find the kitchen. That was all that he knew. Under the Cloak, that had been an achievable goal. Out here in the open, feeling naked and exposed, he was getting less certain by the minute.

Light up ahead announced another main thoroughfare. He shared a look with Fred over his shoulder, before stepping out into it. A long corridor, that must have ran the length of the ship. Almost all of the torch brackets were filled. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls. Grand scenes of battle, and imposing portraits of Durmstrang Academy, for the most part. James eyed the students' home school in awe. Its stark stone walls and towering parapets witnessed their passing in silence.

The occasional clang of a pot, and the burgeoning smell of something rich and savoury told them that they were approaching their destination. A few doors lining the corridors were ajar, spilling more bright light out onto the floorboards. Laughter rang out from either side. Followed by words in the sharp, guttural language of the Durmstrang natives. James strained for the tell-tale groan of a scraping chair, or any other indication that someone was poised to burst into the corridor and notice them. This might be their only opportunity to acquire the Book – they could not afford failure.

As it was, he was prepared when a figure pushed open a door not six feet from their position. He hastily shoved Fred through the nearest opening, tumbling in after him in a tangle of limbs and hushed curses. Fred rubbed his elbow. Footsteps approached and receded. A pair of hushed voices could be faintly discerned through the walls. While their words were unfamiliar, their tones were not: they were out to enjoy a little alone time away from prying eyes. Their attention was directed inward.

James almost jumped out of his skin when, as the sounds receded, he turned to face Fred and signal onwards. A shadowy figure in the mottled grey robes of Durmstrang stood in his place. James could feel his eyes bulging, as his mouth worked soundlessly. Thoughts of his wand, or fleeing, or trying to communicate tripped over one another in his head, leaving him gaping uselessly, until, stepping forward into the light, Fred's face was the one beneath the cowl. And the grin he wore was entirely too pleased with himself

'You should have seen the look on your face!' he whisper-laughed, doubling over with hilarity.

'Not funny,' James growled. 'You almost gave me heart failure.'

'Here,' Fred tossed him another robe. 'This might help us blend in, from a distance at least.'

James tugged the robe over his head in silence. He was most certainly _not_ going to admit that it had been a good idea. His heart was still hammering somewhere up around his throat. The clothing smelled a little musty, and was slightly too baggy along the arms, but it would do from afar. He hoped.

'Hey, what do you reckon this is?' Fred asked, holding up a small, battered, leather-bound book. His voice came from further in the room, where it was shrouded in darkness.

' _Lumos,'_ James whispered. They were in a boys' dormitory – narrow bunk beds were recessed into both walls. A scattering of clothes and socks dusted the floor, while posters of Quidditch players dashed across the walls, in and out between a mixture of scantily-clad witches and even the occasional Muggle image, bland and lifeless in comparison.

The book in question was clearly well-read. It depicted the stag of Durmstrang on the cracked front cover, but unlike the official emblem, there was no eagle. Instead, the skull stared at James with burning eyes, among a softly raging inferno, the image alive like the most detailed wizard painting. Someone had clearly put a lot of effort into the decal. Inside was filled with walls and walls of text, occasional side notes were scribbled in the margins. Several pages were folded over, bookmarked, or completely torn free. The script was all in a language James couldn't even begin to understand. He shrugged, handing the book back.

'Just some old book. Not the one we're after.'

'It was tucked under the mattress,' Fred pushed, 'As if they were trying to hide it.'

'A diary, perhaps. Who knows?'

'You don't reckon it could be _the_ book, though? It could be transfigured, or have some kind of Glamour.'

'The clue said in the kitchen, so I doubt it.'

'Woah,' Fred said, rubbing his temples and looking vaguely cross-eyed. He'd drawn his wand and jabbed it at the book, as if on the verge of casting some spell or Hex. 'I just _thought_ about using magic on it, and it gave me a headache like I'd just been whacked with an angry Bludger.'

'Just put it back,' James urged, a little worry creeping in. He gestured Fred to stay back, while he cracked the door to check if the coast was clear.

'There's another one here!' Fred's voice hissed from the shadows. 'And this bunk has that emblem carved on the bedside. And this one! What do you reckon it is, some sort of secret sign?'

'I reckon it's a sign that if we don't haul arse, we're going to be trapped here all night,' James growled. An exodus of bodies dressed in chef's clothing was tramping past their position, up towards the main deck. They were grumbling darkly about whatever task they had been given out in the wild weather.

The moment their footsteps had faded, James yanked Fred out into the light. He turned up the stiff collar on his robe, and shrunk down in to the cowl, in the hopes that he'd be little more than an indistinguishable, dark-haired Grey among many. Worries about whether the students on the ship would all recognise one another were pushed to the back of his mind.

His heart leaped as they scurried past an open door. The sound of foreign voices washed over him, leaving him in a cold sweat, waiting for the accusatory shout, the summons or the angry yell. None came, and when they slipped into the kitchen area unnoticed, James allowed himself a long sigh of relief.

'Let's get looking,' Fred said eagerly, rubbing his hands together. James had no idea how long they would be afforded before the angry chefs returned. He didn't fancy the idea of being around in a room with them and a bunch of sharp knives when that happened.

The kitchen was in a state of organized chaos – clearly in the middle of prepping for an impressive meal. Tantalizing savoury smells wafter out of a wood-fired oven. Vegetables lay in various states of preparedness across the bench tops. James watched for a moment as a carrot rolled dangerously close to the edge, under the influence of the gentle swaying of the ship on the Lake.

Above a wooden counter at the far end, James could see the preparations being made for the eating of the meal on offer. A grand table was draped in a silken white cloth. Massive crests of all three schools decorated the centre. Golden goblets and gilt-lined plates sat obediently, defying the sway of the ship by some subtle Charm or Spell. There were three of each. Torchlight flickered and winked off the array of gold, merging with the pinpricks of light glimmering through the line of porthole windows that displayed the broad edifice of Hogwarts above them, looking down benevolently. Through some trick of scale or distance, the scene made the observer feel small and insignificant in comparison to the might of the school – _point to Renshaw._

A jarring clash snapped James' attention around to where Fred stood, wide-eyed and aghast, next to what had been a pot of stew, but was now reduced to a lumpy grey puddle on the floor.

Fred began a frantic and misshapen effort to clean it up, while James began flinging open cupboard doors and sifting through stacks of plates and pots. A new urgency was injected into their search. There was no way _that_ little mishap went unnoticed.

He riffled through drawers and dove into pantries, jamming his arm into bins of vegetables, overturning boxes and cartons of grain in his haste. The game was no longer to be secretive, it was to get out alive. Between Fred's grunts and curses and James' own desperation, he didn't notice the approaching voices in the hallway through which they'd entered.

It was only when he found the shelf of cook books – and _their_ Book displayed unabashedly at the fore – when he let out a triumphant 'A-ha!' at the same time as Fred cried 'that'll do it!' that he noticed the pitch of the voices change, from sullen and moody to piqued and irritated – and right outside the door.

'Shit!' he and Fred swore together. The footsteps outside began to hasten, alerted to an intrusion.

The pair dashed out the back towards the dining area. They pushed through a small side door, into another narrow, servants' passage. The exposed underbelly of the boat was ribbed in bare wood. There were no windows, but it was surprisingly well-lit for a poky little corridor.  
They found out why a second later, as a trio of voices coalesced, echoing slightly in the narrow space. Voices speaking in English. Including the scarily familiar voice of-

'Renshaw!' Fred looked grey.

They tumbled back into the dining room in a panic. The Book was clutched tightly against James' chest. It threated to slip in a shaking grip slicked with sweat. Tiny cupboards lined the wall behind the table. The pair flung open the nearest and threw themselves into it. James tugged the door closed behind him, just as both groups entered their respective rooms. The chefs' ire instantly became polite deference in the face of a tirade of heavily-accented English that could have only belonged to the head of Beauxbatons Academy – Valérie Dufour.

'I cannot _believe_ that you 'ave forgot ze chair! It is just like you, Galatea. You invite us here to talk, and then must spite me like zis? I should leave this instant!'

'Oh come now, Valérie, it was but a simple misunderstanding, I'm sure. Wasn't it Egil?'

The hard edge to her tone brought forth a defensive effort from Egil Beck – the head of Durmstrang.

'Most certainly. My staff have checked the crate that was to have contained your specially-requested chair, Miss Dufour. They found it opened, but empty. A most curious development. Rest assured that some of mine will be asking around.'

Had James not been folded into the approximate shape of a pretzel at that very moment, he would have shared a rather amused look with Fred. As it was, he settled with adjusting his position so that Fred's elbow was slightly less jabbing into his windpipe, and tried to make himself as quiet and still as possible. Fred was shaking, probably with laughter. James wondered if they should just get St Mungo's to declare him insane and be done with it.

'Most curious, indeed,' came Renshaw's voice. James' heart leapt as the double-tap of heeled footsteps approached their cupboard. He'd heard stories from his father about Dumbledore, who just always seemed to _know_ when they were up to no good. Did Renshaw have the same knack? The footsteps halted right outside. James dared not even breathe. 'But I'm sure that there is a perfectly… sensible explanation for it.'

The sound of Renshaw's nails drumming on the door of their cupboard almost made James yell out in fright. He was torn in a confusing state, halfway between hyperventilation and holding his breath.

'I 'ope zat you will be punishing whoever eez responsible,' huffed Dufour. James was becoming less fond of her by the second.

'Rest assured that we will dish out punishments most befitting of the crime.'

On the word _crime_ , Renshaw slapped the door of their cupboard with the flat of her hand. Fred twitched in alarm, his elbow jabbing into James' throat. He gagged involuntarily, wheezing and trying desperately to stifle a wave of coughs.

'What was zat?'

'What?' Renshaw asked. James could hear the innocent smile in her voice. 'Surely nothing.'

'There is something in ze cupboard, I heard it!'

'Probably just a few stray rats.'

' _Rats?!'_

'She jests, dear Valérie, I assure you. Now please, we have no wingback thrones for you, but take a seat in one of our humble chairs and let us honour you with some Durmstrang-Hogwarts hospitality.'

''Ospitality? We 'ave not met on such frosty terms for nearly forty years.'

'Well,' Renshaw's voice was flat and emotionless. 'Let us hope this meetings goes a little better than that one. For all of our sakes.'

There was a long-suffering huff, followed by the scraping of wood on wood, before James let out the breath he had been holding.

His panic, however, slowly morphed into frustration as the pair realised the situation they were in. The three heads of school were sat down to discuss lengthy, droll matters of diplomacy over what was certain to be an equally lengthy, though somewhat more elegant, meal. The two boys were folded into a cupboard that might have comfortably fit one and a half house elves. By the small sliver of light that eked in under the door, James could just barely make out the shape of Fred's head, twisted painfully down against his chest. The damned book was jammed in between them. He scowled at it in the darkness. _You'd better be worth it._ Elbows and knees were folded in ways that James hadn't believed entirely possible before this incident, and in the hot, stifling air, with the ship rocking gently back and forth on the waves of the Lake, James was beginning to get a sloshing, queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He had nothing to do but focus on the talk around the table, in an effort to pass the aching minutes.

The Heads opened with somewhat awkward pleasantries more befitting a thirteen-year-old's first date than a grand diplomatic meeting. Even through the muffling effect of the door between them, James could feel the tension hanging in the air between each sentence. Renshaw enquired after the wellbeing of a student under Beck's care. Beck in turn asked Dufour if her summer house had finished construction. Answers were clipped and taut, word-perfect to within an inch of politeness. As the first course was served, the tinkling of cutlery and obligatory praises of the cuisine filled the room. Renshaw toasted unity, and received an indecipherable grumble from Dufour for her efforts.

Midway through the second course, James' muscles were beginning to tighten to the point of aching. The wine was slow to loosen tongues around the table, and it was into a rather awkward silence that Renshaw finally spoke.

'It's so good to see the students really taking up the mantle of the competition around the school,' she mused. 'I practically had to separate a pair of Ravenclaws this morning, in the middle of a Charms competition. They were at each other's throats, arguing over the most subtle enunciation of a spell. I had to remind them that they were on the same team!'

James smiled. He'd been there himself. At the time, he'd been certain Cassie was about to batter Chloe Swann to death with her dragon book – the two diminutive girls had brought an entire Great Hall to a standstill. He understood the feeling, though. He wanted to win on the pitch, outside the classroom. Cassie wanted to win within it.

'Perhaps you could do us a favour and disqualify them both,' Beck quipped, a cheeky lilt in his tone.

'With the tournament so close? I think not.' Renshaw's laugh was low and soft.

'You've a fine group of students at your disposal, Tia,' Beck complimented.

'And yourself, Egil. Durmstrang's lead – however narrow – does you credit.'

'Listen to yourselves! Tittering over one another like long-lost lovers. I could not put up with it forty years ago, and I shan't do the same now. It makes me sick.'

Within the confines of his cupboard, James pulled a face at the thought of Renshaw and… well anyone, really.

'Speaking of minor inconveniences to our lives, you haven't perchance had any more murderous beasts set loose about your school, have you Valérie?'

'Do not force this on me, Galatea. We know why we're here. I am seeking reparations from you, for defacing and debasing my school, for humiliating and slandering us throughout the year. You make us lepers, outcasts. And then, worst of all, when things don't go your way you lash out and kill one of my precious Abraxans!'

Upon the last word, there was a whip-like crack that shot through the room. A hand slapping on tabletop. Dufour's voice had become stretched, rage sliding in in the form of screeching timbre.

Fred let out the quietest 'bloody hell.'

'You don't seriously think that was me, do you? Or are you as daft as I've always believed? They were feeding on the fringes of the Forest. These things happen.'

'My family has raised Abraxans forever. I love zem like family. You _knew_ how much they mean to me!'

'I'm not in the business of killing innocent animals, Valérie,' however unfortunate their ownership.'

'Your groundskeeper is an oaf, Galatea, but he is not incompetent. If something escaped from that forest, it was because he let it. Zis was murder. _Murder!'_

James' breath was coming short and fast, his heart racing at the tense developments before them. In his own ears, it sounded as if he were sucking in all the air in the room, a great rushing sound emanating from their hiding spot, betraying them any moment now, as soon as Dufour stopped yelling. A single bead of sweat trailed down the nape of his neck, drawing an involuntary shudder.

'Don't be ridiculous!' Renshaw roared back.

'Oh, I'm very serious. If you do not take the responsibility for this crime, then it will be your groundskeeper that I summon back to France to face a _full ministerial trial_ for the murder of my Abraxan!'

Silence swooped down upon the room instantly. The final note of triumph in Dufour's voice rang harsh and jeering in all their ears. _Could she do that?_ James thought. It was completely unfair. Anyone who had ever met Hagrid knew he loved anything on four legs – the bigger the better – there was no way he could be responsible.

'You have no jurisdiction here, Dufour,' Beck stated confidently. 'You cannot do such a thing. This is outrageous.'

'But you are so wrong, Monsieur Egil. Abraxans are a protected species. They are treasured and revered. To harm one is treason against the very Minister himself. We are granted international jurisdiction to afford them protection, just as zey are granted being status when travelling internationally. In the eyes of the French Ministry, what Galatea has done is as bad as murdering one of my students. And I _will_ have my reparation!'

'Tia, is this true?' for the first time that night, the confidence was drained from Beck's voice.

James heard no response, but Renshaw must have nodded, because Beck dropped a string of curses and threats that threatened to curl his hair.

There was no way Hagrid would have done it. James was certain of that. Although… Renshaw was _very_ persuasive. Even then, Hagrid would leave the school before willingly harming an animal. It was completely unfair. But if Renshaw had done it herself, Hagrid might have no idea. There was clearly some bad blood between Renshaw and Valérie Dufour...

'If I do not have your word that either yourself or zat oaf groundsman is to accept my summons, I will withdraw all of my students from both tournaments, _tonight!'_

' _No!'_ James whispered. He had to get out and warn Hagrid. Tell him to run. They could hide him at their house, his parents wouldn't mind, they'd-

'When the time comes, I will be there,' Renshaw's inflectionless voice hung heavy and flat in the air.

'Tia, no! Send the giant. The price of failure-'

'I know what a full ministerial inquiry entails, Egil. I know the consequences, the punishment for a guilty verdict.'

'You are too valuable.'

'Then it would be best if I don't lose.'

'You become attached to your little experiment here, Galatea?' Dufour's voice was pomp and smug and James wanted to bust out of the cupboard and hex her for it. 'How… endearing. Was it not you who carved " _At all Cost"_ upon the lintel of our quarters, all those years ago?'

'And wasn't it you who misunderstood the meaning and used it to justify selling us all out?'

Dufour hissed. James strained to listen to her whispered, sibilant response.

'We were doomed. We had days left – days! Zis wasn't something that you could push through with force of will. These weren't people that Egil could make _disappear_ in the night.'

'People died. People _I_ loved, died because of you. _We_ almost died. Why is it I'm not surprised that you haven't changed?'

'Perhaps you simply do not understand the phrase _at all cost.'_

'Not a day goes by, where I don't wish that it was you who'd been killed back there.'

'I care for your words no longer, Galatea. I have what I came here for. Now, I shall leave. The smell of this rotting dinghy depresses me.'

The sound of a chair being shoved back was followed by a set of receding footsteps. They halted at the far side of the room.

'Not so fast,' Beck purred. James could feel his confident smile in the tone of his voice. 'We'll not let an attack on _our_ students slide by so easily, either.'

'I 'ave told you. It was an _accident!'_ Dufour spat.

'Then why does this memory from one of your staff have a curiously blank period around the time preparations were being made for the task? A blank period that is curiously reminiscent of forcefully altered memories.'

'Well, Galatea would know _all_ about that.'

'That is true,' Renshaw spoke. 'They say that I'm one of the best around…'

'You wouldn't. People know I'm here. How _dare_ you threaten me!'

'You're right. But if we _ever_ find out – and believe me, we'll be looking – then I'll finish what I should have started forty years ago. What I still dream of doing to this day.'

'That will be hard to do from the towers of Nurmengard.'

James very nearly yelled out in alarm, as the sound of a door bursting open crashed around the room.

'Oh, thank Merlin I've got you all here,' Professor Longbottom's voice was rattled in a way that instantly stirred concern within James. What could possibly scare the head of Gryffindor House?

'I trust there is a reason for this intrusion,' Renshaw said.

'Aye,' said the professor. 'This.'

Something soft rustled down upon the table. A piece of disturbed cutlery clinked. James frowned, curious. Suddenly, Beck started on another of his cursing tirades. This time, even Renshaw joined in for a touch.

'How much?' she finally whispered.

'Not much,' Longbottom replied. 'Barely enough to be noticeable. But… enough.'

'Who?' roared Beck. 'How?'

'Zis is not of my concern,' Dufour sniffed. 'I shall leave you to manage your circus, Galatea. I look forward to the next time we meet. I shall enjoy showing you the 'ospitality of France.'

The sound of the door slamming and her footsteps fading filled the room for a moment.

'I get the feeling she doesn't much like us,' Professor Longbottom finally spoke. Neither remaining Head responded.

'So somebody has stolen enough of your _Sanocultus_ Sap to begin attempting to craft a remedy, professor.' Renshaw's voice was cold as ice. James' heart threatened to stop on the spot. He prayed to every deity he could think of that they not be discovered now, of all times.

'And subsequently leaked it to the _Prophet,'_ the professor confirmed. 'And the word is, every single other network of news outlets imaginable. From Hogsmeade to Knockturn Alley, people are talking about it.

'Could Alder have snuck in to the castle?' Beck asked.

'Impossible. He's… No. with Steelhearts at every entrance, he'd never make it. No, it has to have been someone on the inside. A sympathiser, perhaps. There are enough bleeding hearts among the staff alone, without taking some of the older students in to account. That Sap is still within the castle walls, I guarantee it. We just have to find it.'

'Every Infected in the country who isn't already insane is going to descend on the castle once they hear about this. It's going to be chaos.' Professor Longbottom's voice was tentative.

'Aye,' Renshaw agreed. 'And we're no closer to a cure.'

'Could we reach out to Alder? Offer him sanctuary? At least a chance to explain himself.'

'I'll think on it. For now, best we get back to the castle. We've defences to shore up to make certain a wave of Infected don't drown us all. But most importantly, we've got some exhaustive searches to undertake.'

James waited a long time in that cupboard, even after the voices had disappeared. Fred whispered a few pointed questions his way, but they didn't make it through the maelstrom turning in his mind. She'd done it: Rain had laid the bait to draw out Alder. A way to possibly save them all, if the Infected didn't swamp them before they had a chance.

 _What had they done?_

* * *

'This is wrong.'

'But doesn't it feel so right?'

Tristan Macmillan had had enough. He pushed himself up from his chair and began pacing the room – yet again.

'You can't leave yet. You promised.'

He looked back at the only other occupant in the room. Ran his hand through his hair in frustration. She sat at one side of a table dotted with rose petals and draped in purple and gold silk. She wore an elegant, sequined dress, with her hair tied in a series of intricate braids and knots. A simple, emerald pendant hung from her neck, sitting snugly against her pale ivory skin.

A few morsels of food stood untouched upon the tabletop. A pair of empty bottles of Butterbeer hadn't been nearly enough to take the edge off. They were in an unused classroom, with all the desks shoved to one side. The floor had been swept, the worst of the cobwebs scoured away. A crystal chandelier of unknown provenance provided a dreamy sort of light, and the large windows before them looked out over the sweeping vista of the castle grounds. A few students skipped about on broomsticks in the last light of the evening. Down on the lake, he could make out the silhouette of the Durmstrang ship. Where he ought to be right now. Where his friends were achieving the very thing that he'd devoted his year to achieve.

'You wouldn't be with me if you didn't truly want it.'

Sometimes it was terrifying, the way she seemed to read his mind.

'Don't do this, Lily.'

It was ever a struggle even to voice her name. _Lily Potter._ He felt unclean, even thinking about it.

'I'm not forcing you to be here, Tristan.'

'I know. I came to tell you that this is the end. I have what I set out to get. We have the book. Any moment now the boys will be sneaking off that boat. This…' here he paused to gesture at the room, the decorated table. ' _Us,_ is finished.'

'It doesn't have to be.' For the first time in one of their meetings, there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. 'Not if we both want it.'

'I don't want it. Us. This – whatever _this_ is, or has become, or is trying to become. It's not right.'

'I can tell when you lie, Tristan.'

'You're eleven years old, Lily.'

'I turned twelve months ago!'

'And I'm fourteen.'

'Two years!'

'You're James' sister!'

He hadn't meant to yell, but his voice took a long time to fade from their empty room. The frustration within himself was coiling and twisting around his insides, leaving him feeling tight and sick and angry.

It may have been a trick of the light, but when she looked up at him, those bright green eyes were glistening wetly. Her voice was barely a whisper. 'And so you would punish me for that?'

Her vulnerability, her openness, drew him toward her. He wanted to rush to her and comfort her. She saw it in his eyes, responded with the barest shift of her shoulders, facing towards him, open.

He took a single step. Backward. The slump of her shoulders, the hurt in her eyes cut through him. He turned on his heel to leave. Embracing her now would be the end. It would be admitting defeat. He'd never come back from it, and he'd be betraying one of his greatest loyalties, to one of his best friends. Should Hufflepuff house ever find out, he'd be Excommunicated from their ranks in no time.

'It's over, Lily. We're done.' He spoke to the wooden door as he flung it open, and then to the empty corridor without. 'I- I'll see you around.'

And with that, Tristan MacMillan walked slowly away. Feeling empty on a night that should have been one of great joy.

* * *

'I've never understood the emotion of love.'

'And that, Heath, is why you'll die cold and alone.'

'It's _Lord_ Heath to you, Ambrose you filthy peasant!'

'I don't think eighth in line to the title gives you any right to use it, you loon.'

'Sixth, ha! The twins recently suffered a most grievous accident involving a Thestral, a Troll and a most ill-mannered vampire. You see-'

'Bring him back!' Lily Potter's voice was plaintive and broken. The room seemed so much larger for the one tiny girl who sat at its centre.

'No can do,' Heath assured her. 'Not without payment. And a suitable bending of our rules that would take a flexible moral compass that I frankly do not possess.'

'That's because you don't have _any_ moral compass,' Ambrose rumbled.

'How dare you! I-'

'You owe me!' Lily snapped again. She banged her fists on the table. An empty bottle of Butterbeer toppled, rolling to the floor with a smash. The glass around her feet reflected the flickering candlelight.

'The debt has been repaid,' Ambrose said, firmly but not unkindly. 'Your brother has the book as we speak – and a little knowledge he'd not bargained for when the night began, I'd wager – it has taken him almost a year to acquire it. We made sure of it. If you couldn't close your end of the plan, that's not our problem. We did our part. We no longer owe you anything.'

'Please, no! I- I'll pay you!'

'Like some kind of hired hand?' Heath spat. 'We've debased ourselves enough for you already! The noble art of racketeering and gambling is our one and only calling. With a side helping of influencing the most important of political decisions. We're not a pair of layabouts to be hired on for such a menial task as this!'

'Sorry kid,' Ambrose shrugged. 'We're leaving, too.'

'Please…'

The pair turned their back on her and made their way to the door. For Lily, it was an achingly familiar scene.

'We've a schedule to stick to.' Ambrose told her. 'If you'll excuse us, we've another meeting – and she's bound to be a damned sight more upset than you are, right now.'

Heath burst out into a violent fit of giggles. ' _Enchante_!' he laughed. His cackle eventually fading into the depths of the castle, as Lily Potter sat cold and alone at the top of the tower.


	25. Rattled Teeth & Flustered Searches

'Forward, to victory!'

The Gryffindor common room erupted into a riot of noise as James and Fred appeared at the head of the stairs, brooms slung over their shoulders. Cheers and whoops and whistles loud enough to hurt their ears cascaded over them as they marched down to the sea of noise. Hands grabbed them, lifting them aloft. They rode across the room on the waves of an all-black ocean, while beneath them the chant of 'Hogwarts! Hogwarts!' threatened to rattle the windows clean out of their panes.

The boys locked eyes. Equal grins were splitting their faces, both lapping up the excitement and electric atmosphere. Sparks and pops from stray spells, and even a rogue Weasley's firework, zipped around their heads, adding another layer to the chaos. James had to duck a dangling chandelier or risk decapitation.

They were set down – safely – in front of the portrait hole. A sudden hush fell over the crowd at the familiar creaking hinges signalling an unannounced intruder to their midst.

'What's the meaning of all of this racket?' came Professor Longbottom's voice.

James and Fred spun to face him, but before they could even fumble for an explanation, the professor's eyes lit up as he realised what was afoot. He grabbed both boys by the wrist, lifting their arms high in the air, as if they had already been crowned champions. The room exploded in its loudest cheer yet.

'Give 'em hell, boys,' the professor said with a wink.

They marched out the portrait hole on the crest of a wave of noise, Professor Longbottom now directing the Gryffindors in a horrible, but raucous rendition of the school song that they could still hear from three floors below.

'Blimey,' Fred finally said, once their breathing had returned to normal. 'I'm ready to Bludge some Blues, alright.'

'Aye,' James agreed. 'Reckon I could score a goal or seven right now.'

'Reckon you're going to need to. What is it, a seventy point lead before Odette can catch the Snitch?'

'That's it.'

'A Chaser's dream scenario. It'd be about the only time you lot are useful, wouldn't it?'

'Oi!' James gave Fred a friendly shove.

'James Potter.'

'Oh, bugger.' Wait, had he said that aloud?

'I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall,' Fred was quick to interject. He turned and dashed back in the direction they'd just come. Away from the figure who stood waiting for him.

'Er, hi Rain. I've been meaning to see you. But I'm sort of… in the middle of something here.'

He waved his broom under her nose for emphasis.

'I'll take but a moment of your time, James Potter.'

He made the mistake of looking into her sea-green eyes. A sudden bout of vertigo sent him staggering. As she reached out a hand to take his own, he wasn't certain that the uncomfortable pins and needles that her touch engendered was a better result than falling on his backside would have been.

She led him a short way up the unlit corridor which she had been waiting in. Not a soul inhabited it. The entirety of the student body was flowing from their common rooms to the Quidditch pitch today, to witness the final match, where everything was at stake.

'We did it James,' she whispered frantically. She bundled him up against the wall in a shadowy corner. She stuck her face into his own. Her eyes were burning with a fervent light so strong they seemed to glow. She still held his hand, jammed up between them; all that separated them. A point of solidarity in his swimming vision. He was struggling to focus.

'We did,' James replied, a little woozy. 'And all the world knows it.'

'But they know not that it was _us!'_ she practically shook him with excitement. 'We are close now, one step closer-'

'To Alder, right,' James agreed, slowly regaining his scattered wits.

'To drawing him out,' Rain said, at the same time that James said: 'To helping him cure the Infected.'

'Right… so how do we get it to him?'

'I have left word with appropriate people. If he needs to get a message to me, he will. Else he may risk appearing within the castle itself.'

'Even with all of the Steelhearts?'

'He's bested them once, remember. He and this mysterious… companion are a fearsome duo. We'll just have to make sure we're ready.'

'… to give them the Sap.'

'Yes. Right. May I see it, James Potter? I trust you are keeping it safe.'

'Aye.' He looked down pointedly at the infinitesimal space between them.

'Oh, of course.' She leapt back to give him room.

'You might want to, er, turn around for this bit,' James said, a little awkwardly.

Rain's cheeks instantly flushed with colour, and her eyes bulged. 'Just where are you hiding it James Potter?'

He didn't miss the panicked look she flicked towards his nether regions.

'What? No! It's under my shirt. I've a harness so I don't drop it during the match.'

The relief was palpable, as she obeyed, and James unfastened the precious cargo. He handed it to her with care, despite the Unbreakable Charms that Pot-Head had assured him would keep it safe.

'Beautiful,' she breathed softly.

James peered at the clear, gloopy substance swirling lazily within the vial. He wasn't sure they were quite looking at the same thing.

She stared at it for a long time. Seconds became minutes. James shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Groomed a stray twig on his broom, and polished away an imaginary scuff mark. Rain's attention was still rapt on the nondescript little vial.

'Erm, I should probably get going,' James told the top of her head. He held out his hand pointedly.

'Right. Yes.' She handed it back, a little reluctantly. James stuffed it in a pocket; he'd deal with re-strapping the harness in the change rooms. He was officially late. Odette would murder him. Ava's patient disappointment might be even worse.

They made their way back to the main thoroughfare together. A steady stream of students were still making their way downwards. A knot of Gryffindors gave a cheer as James emerged, side-by-side with Rain.

'Onya Potter!' one cried.

'Good way to let off some steam!' shouted another.

James was mortified. He made to head off, but Rain grabbed his hand, spinning him around and surprising him by wrapping him up in a hug. 'Good luck!' she whispered in his ear.

Before he could respond, she'd disappeared off into the crowd. The cheering had redoubled, and someone was trying to start up another round of the school song.

'Having fun, are we?'

'Oh, bloody hell.'

'What was that?' Odette Mansfield stood over him, hands on hips and looking entirely like she had half a mind to toss him out the nearest window.

'Nothing,' he muttered.

'Thought so.' She grabbed him by the shoulder in a vice-like grip and pushed him down the stairs ahead of her.

James carried on in awkward, sulky silence for a while. Odette was never more than a half-step behind him, sighing and _tsk-_ ing irritably at regular intervals.

'Feeling _relieved,_ are we?' she shot.

'I- what? No, we were just talking!'

'And what exactly did you have to tell her in a shady corridor out of sight, huh?'

'We just-'

'Don't lie to me, Potter. I _wrote_ that playbook.'

Their conversation was cut short as they arrived in the Entrance Hall. A great mass of students were milling about, apparently stuck trying to get out the door. Odette mumbled something darkly. 'Bloody searches,' she said.

'What?' James' scanning for Fred was cut abruptly short. His eyes snapped back to Odette.

'They're searching every single person at the door. As if one of _us_ is going to have stolen their stupid plant.'

'Sap,' James corrected her. But it was distractedly. He felt as if he were going to vomit.

'Whatever. Whoever stole it isn't going to be stupid enough to carry it around with them.'

'Right…' James agreed. The line was moving slowly. Perhaps there was time… he felt a little shaky on his feet all of a sudden.

'Did she suck the backbone out of you, too, Potter? Stand up. C'mon the players get priority.'

Before he could even summon a coherent thought, she'd grabbed him by the hand and pulled him off to the side, where Professor Ellfrick was searching the players. Cold sweat started beading all over James' body. He'd never quite seen eye to eye with Ellfrick after the exploding chicken incident in first year.

'I- I forgot my glove, he stammered. I need to go back and get it. Can't play without it.'

He took a single step backwards, though Odette refused to release him.

'James!' came a familiar cry. Fred had appeared through the milling horde, waving something brown and leathery above him that slapped James like a well-aimed Stunner. 'Mate, you'd left this on your bed. I ran back and got it while you and Rain…'

'Ahem.'

'Oh, hi Odette.'

Fred stuffed the glove into James' stomach and darted through the checkpoint. He snapped at Professor Ellfrick for disturbing a few twigs on his perfectly-groomed broomstick, and just like that he was out on the other side. Free.

James dared not fish about in his pocket. He dared not try anything that would bring scrutiny. Maybe she'd overlook it. He kicked himself for not re-applying the harness with Rain. Odette shoved him forwards. Professor Ellfrick's eyes narrowed as she saw him. _She knew!_ His mind was conjuring an array of scenarios. He could run for it – but for how long. Could he secretly Confund the professor? Could he Vanish the vial from his own pocket?

A million scenarios in which he broke free were flicking through his mind, each more unrealistic than the next, and then all of a sudden Ellfrick was on him. Running her wand over his person, fidgeting and scuffing and roughing up his broom. She turned his coat inside out, fished around in folds of his playing jersey. Last of all, she went to pat the pocket. _The_ pocket. James could feel the sweat slicking his palms.

'Wait, I-'

He felt her hand brush against his leg. Without a hint of glass vial in between. It wasn't there. The Sap was gone.

'You what, Potter?' Ellfrick drawled, raising an eyebrow.

'Er, nothing.'

A very long and very tense moment passed between them, before a tiff jerk of her neck indicated he was free to go. James took a few stilted steps down towards the courtyard, relief washing over him in waves.

'Alright mate? You look a bit peaky,' Fred offered.

'Just nerves,' he mumbled, as Odette joined them once more. 'Just a few nerves.'

As they headed down towards the pitch together, James stuffed a hand into his pocket as nonchalantly as he could. The vial hadn't reappeared. Which meant it wasn't Charmed to avoid detection. It was simply gone.

All of a sudden, Rain's out of character final hug made so much sense. She'd seen exactly where he stashed it. She'd gotten it out of the secure harness he'd been wearing. He turned to look back up at the castle with a scowl on his face. She was up there with the vial, doing Merlin-only-knows what, and he was stuck, left out and upset, feeling very much like there was a great big part of this that she wasn't telling him.

It took absolutely all of Ava's bright, enthusiastic peppiness to snap James out of his newly acquired funk in the changing rooms. But as soon as he stepped out onto the pitch, and heard thousands of voices cheering for him, roaring louder as his name was called.

As he kicked off from the pitch, his new Nimbus Model One broomstick leaping into the air with glee, the wind rushing past him flensed away his worries, as the joy and ecstasy of flight overruled all.

They faced off mid-air against the Beauxbatons contingent. The Blues scowled across at them. Loyal and Ava shook hands.

'This will be all over quickly,' he leered.

'Oh, you'd know all about that,' shouted Odette from above.

Declan Hawksby, the flying instructor and referee had his hands full just restraining the students as they nearly descended into an all-out brawl before the whistle was even blown.

The moment the Quaffle was tossed into the air, though, pettiness was put aside, and aggression was channelled into the game. James dashed in on his broom, easily the quickest on the pitch. He got his fingers to the Quaffle first, and tossed a no-look pass behind him, to a spot where he knew Lynch would be waiting.

He heard Lynch's affirmative yell – indicating he'd caught the pass – and continued up the pitch without looking back, surging ahead of the scrambling Blues defence. Lynch appeared on his right, Ava on his left. The Chaser assigned to defend James was struggling to keep up with his lightning broom, and so when Lynch floated a pass into the centre of the pitch, James had only the Keeper to beat as he rose up and slapped the Quaffle clean through the left-hand hoop.

The crowd – overwhelmingly clad in black – roared. Above the din, James could just make out the commentary, coming from the Gryffindor stand.

' _POTTER SCORES! HOGWARTS TAKES THE LEAD. TAKE THAT YOU SNAIL-SUCKING-'_

Ava shot him a huge double thumbs-up. He and Lynch shared a stoic nod of approval. And Hogwarts moved into the lead, ten points to nil.

And they'd need to hang on to it. Seventy points ahead before Odette could even look at the Snitch. They had to score quickly and often. And hope the Snitch stayed away. If it _did_ show… then it was down to Fred and Jen Redfern to make sure that Loyal Clavet couldn't get his greasy paws on it.

From the restart, Beauxbatons pushed hard up the centre of the Pitch, grouping in an aggressive Eagle's Talon arrangement. Their Beaters circled menacingly, raining Bludgers down on any attempts James, Ava or Preston made to intercept them. James reached out to intercept a pass, and received a Bludger to the back of his arm for his efforts. Pain lanced up his arm, the protection his Glove afforded the only thing between him and a broken arm. It had been a desperate move, but such was their situation. He couldn't afford to leave anything on the pitch when they walked away today.

And thus he saw his opening, when looking at the situation like only a desperate madman would. He signalled Ava to press in from the left. She shot him a quizzical look – that was a pointless move – but acquiesced nonetheless. James dove down from on high. Above the line of sight of the Blues, but completely open to any and all Bludgers that they might want to send his way. He felt the wind from one tug at his hair, centimetres away from a sticky end to his match. When a second black blur leapt into his periphery, he braced for a painful impact. He was too committed to the dive.

 _Whump!_

The sound of bat to ball echoed throughout the gasping stadium.

'I got you!' James heard Fred call as he whipped past, the air drawing tears forth from his eyes, blurring his vision.

As Ava made her doomed lunge at the player on the Blues' left flank, James watched as he made the predicted pass to the centre of the formation, protecting their possession. It was a soft pass – a safe throw, as they were about to be face-to-face with the Keeper, James and Lynch completely out of sight.

Or so they thought.

In a streak of black and gold, James intersected the Quaffle mid-pass, as he rocketed past in his death-dive. He tugged hard on the handle of his broom as the grass rushed up towards him. He could _feel_ the broom groaning in protest beneath him. But this was no ordinary broom. And just as he asked more of it than any sane man might think possible, so too did it respond in a manner equally as insane, pulling up within an inch of the turf, in a rendition of the Wronskei Feint that would have left Harry Potter himself breathless.

The roar of the crowd wrestle with the rushing wind as James eyed up the Blues' Keeper. A textbook Norwegian No-look shot sent him the wrong way, and Hogwarts were up two goals. James punched the air with glee.

' _POTTER IS FLYING LIKE A MAN POSSESSED! No, wait- not literally, Professor. CAN ANY OF YOU TOAD-LICKERS STOP HIM? OW-'_

The Blues came out angry. They tore up the pitch in possession of the Quaffle. Ava tried an interception, and got a stiff shoulder from her opposite for her trouble. A spout of blood painted the air, and she dipped away, clutching her face. A Bludger from Fred forced a wobbly pass, and Preston was able to pressure the Chaser on his wing. James saw the cheap shot elbow into Lynch's ribs, but evidently Hawksby did not, as no foul was blown, and James was left defending three-on-one.

He eyed the Blue bearing down upon him with an evil grin. He was mad, James could tell. He was also much bigger than James. Speedy broom be damned, if James didn't move, he was going to get flattened. Which was just what the Blue wanted.

But so did James. At the last second, James flung all his weight into a shoulder charge into the Blue's throwing arm, where he'd been protecting the Quaffle. Unsuspecting of such a reckless move, his opponent was caught offguard. James had less than half a second to be impressed by himself before he was steamrolled by the burly Chaser, knocked clean from his seat. The world spun, and only primal instinct kept one hand wrapped around his broom, saving him from a gruesome fall.

The crowd gasped. James could taste steely blood filling his mouth. He spat a dirty red streamer down below, and made his wobbly way back onto his broom. The blood-streaked grin he flashed his opponent was worth it, as Lynch had regained possession from James' interception and was in the process of scoring a third, unanswered goal for Hogwarts.

' _POTTER MUST BE SEEING STARS AFTER THAT DIRTY SHOT, BUT HIS HEROICS HAVE GIVEN HOGWARTS AN EVEN BIGGER LEAD! TAKE THAT YOU-'_

The broadcast was cut off abruptly.

'James, are you alright?' Ava rushed to his side, concern writ across her face, even through her own nasty split lip.

'Talk about putting your body on the line,' Fred said in awe, arriving to the group.

'Big lad, that one,' James agreed. Most of his word had stopped spinning. One side of his face was numb and his jaw hurt to smile, but he gave what he hoped was an encouraging grin. 'Chasers dream, mate. About time I made myself useful, right?'

'That's the spirit. I'll get him one back for you,' Fred grinned wickedly, twirling his Beaters' bat in one hand.

Beauxbatons managed to peg one goal back after that, and the teams scored back and forth for a painful, nervous period. Hogwarts seemed unable to get beyond a forty point lead. Not nearly enough.

The drawback to James' superstar start to the game, was that Beauxbatons decided that he was the one they'd target with as many dirty, underhanded tricks as they could come up with. He copped elbows and knees. He was shoved, kicked, hammered with Bludgers so much that Fred had to spend half the game just trailing James. A move that almost cost them the match, when he was out of position as the Snitch appeared. Odette took a Bludger to her broom, which spun out of control, and Loyal barely missed the Snitch by a matter of inches as it dove beneath the stands, much to the joy of the crowd, who were now entirely up on their feet to watch the game.

' _IT'S REAL TRENCH WARFARE OUT THERE, FOLKS,'_ the commentator cried, as James wrested possession of a Beauxbatons Chaser. She hissed and spat, and raked her vicious nails up the length of his forearm for his efforts, but he managed to slip past the Keeper and slot another goal for Hogwarts. A goal that put them fifty points ahead. Almost an hour into the game and they had finally managed to break the forty-point barrier.

The crowd knew it. They were stamping and yelling and whooping so loud James had to shout to be heard by his teammates. They reverted to flashing hand signals at one another, a coded form of communication they'd been practicing throughout the season, so as not to be overheard.

James was a mess of cuts and bruises. His breathing was becoming laboured, and his attention spans were shorter. He fastened his glove. A deep cut ran up the length of it. It had been a gift from his friends in his first year. The gash was riven through right where Holly had signed her name.

The Blues spread out on attack, covering the full breadth of the field. They threw strong, nimble passes between one another. Ava's fingertips barely missed what would have been a stunning interception. Lynch pulled in to cover the centre field while James had to push out to Ava's now unguarded wing, while she scrambled back into position.

His opponent had the Quaffle. It was the same burly bloke from earlier. By the cruel grin twisting his face, he was out for revenge, and this time he wouldn't be caught unawares. He stayed wide, skirting in between the stands, using them to dodge Fred's Bludger, until the last minute when he cut in sharply, showing a turn of speed James hadn't been prepared for. James was caught between the Blue and the goal hoop. He was closing in from a tight angle, looking to push past James and poke a shot in around the corner.

James stumped up in defense once again. He held his ground, this time spreading his arms wide, as if he were the Keeper, trying to block the shot. He felt the collision jar every bone in his body. He flailed and scrambled. He felt firm leather on his fingertips. He wound a hand around the Blue's throwing arm to try foul his shot. The force of their collision shoved James backward into the goal hoops, and the whiplash shook him free. He was winded, coughing and struggling to breathe. The crowd's groans told him, before he even saw the Quaffle, that the shot had gone through.

Hawksby blew his whistle – twice. Wait a minute, that was for-

'Foul!' he cried. A hush fell over the crowd. 'Haversacking, against Beauxbatons. Goal nullified. Penalty shot to Hogwarts.'

James had done _just_ enough so that the Blue Chaser couldn't get the shot off before his own arm went through the hoop. The crowd somehow found another notch.

' _IS THERE NOTHING THIS MAN CAN'T DO? SOMEBODY FIND US A DARK LORD, BECAUSE POTTER'S UNSTOPPABLE!'_

The swarm of Blues descending on Hawksby and arguing against the decision gave James the few moments he needed to regather his wits. At least two of his teeth were loose. His neck now hurt to turn to the left, and his little finger wouldn't properly wrap around his broomstick.

A hush descended on the crowd in anticipation as he flew up to take the penalty shot. A shot that would put them sixty points ahead. Only one goal away from the buffer they needed. He hoped to Godric Gryffindor himself that Ava's maths had been right on that.

The Keeper waved his arms wildly to distract James. He shouted and jeered and threw abuse every which way. He made so much noise it was hard to concentrate. But the vicious backspin James put on his shot that caused the Quaffle to dip below his blue-clad arms shut him up for good. For the first time in the match, it wasn't just blood that James could taste, it was victory.

And it was almost taken away mere seconds after, as the Blues slipped through their defences to earn a shot on goal. Mercifully, the shot sailed high, clanging off the top of the centre goal hoop and dropping harmlessly to the earth. Ava dived after it as James revelled in the beautiful sound of clanging iron that gifted them another chance.

A sound that was rapidly drowned out by a panicked yell, and then another. A noise that was swelled to overwhelm the entire stadium. The Snitch had been seen, and Gryffindor were still one goal down. Odette had a lead on Loyal, but it was evaporating fast. Her Siberian Arrow had taken a nasty knock, and was clearly struggling to keep pace. Ava tossed James a desperate pass that was almost intercepted.

'Go!' she cried. James had the fastest broom, it would be on him to score before Loyal got the Snitch. Not even all of Odette brilliance could make up for her failing broomstick.

He shot up the pitch, flat against his broom, Quaffle under one arm. Beside him, Jen shot a Bludger to Fred – a pass move they'd learned from the Durmstrang team. The crowd gasped as Loyal somehow managed to flow around what should have been a perfect hit. The Seekers changed track, bringing Odette into his periphery, streaking in the same direction as he.

He couldn't help but glance across. Loyal was at her tail now. Barely over a metre back. James still had half of the pitch to cover. He ducked under a wild Bludger, and then swerved around the bat that followed – also sent in his direction in desperation. He shrugged off the Beauxbatons Chaser who'd left the nasty scratch on his arm. The stiff-arm he gave her to the face was most satisfying.

It was only Burly left to beat. And then the Keeper. But James was confident he could do that. He'd out-paced his support, so whatever he did, he'd have to do it alone – and fast. Beneath him, Loyal was drawing level with Odette's hips. James could see the determination on her face, but the screeching sound her broom was making was a death-knell if ever he'd heard one.

Burly appeared before James, side-by-side with his Keeper. The pair hovered menacingly before the goal hoops. James hunkered down, made sure to make eye contact with Burly, and flashed him a grin. He'd been running over James all game, it was about time to repay the favour.

At least, that's exactly what James wanted him to think. He watched the subtle shift in weight as Burly and the Keeper braced for the inevitable impact. The stupid smiles on their faces as they thought they had him, and right when James' broomstick was almost tip-to-tip with theirs, he disappeared from their view.

He'd executed a sloth-grip-roll, timed to perfection. His broom carried him onwards, centimetres beneath their booted feet. But the move wasn't meant to be held – it was purely evasive, to avoid a Bludger – James had a half second to line up a shot, knowing full well that it would send him tumbling from his broom, the moment he let go. He reared up – or down, rather – already feeling gravity's ever-reliable embrace. He put everything he had into the shot, from ten feet below the goal hoops, upside down, flying at a speed he'd barely imagined on his old Comet.

The Quaffle came out of his hand cleanly, but he hadn't the time to follow it as panic took over, his legs slipped from his broomstick and he hurtled toward the sandpit at the base of the hoops.

He didn't so much recall the impact itself, as much as the pain that followed. The punching of air from his lungs, leaving him desperate and gasping. The ringing in his ears, the sand in his eyes, nose, and mouth. The way the blue of the sky seemed to waver and flicker, high above. Tiny golden sparks flitted through his vision at will.

A figure, standing over him. Black robes… Hogwarts, Quidditch! She offered one hand to help James to his feet. In her other, beating its feeble wings, was the Golden Snitch.

James coughed, once. Sound was returning. An overwhelming tide of noise. But somehow, this close, he could hear every breath that Odette took. Hers was the voice he needed to her. 'You did it?' he asked.

'No.' she said. His heart stilled. ' _We_ did it.'

And then, as if it were a move they'd been planning for weeks, she kissed him. Full on the mouth. Long, and firm, and filled with the fiery heat and passion of victory from the mountain they'd just climbed, the battle they had just won. And for James, in that moment, there was nothing beyond the kiss.

They came apart only when the rest of their team joined them. The crowd was going berserk. The poor commentator was beside himself. First dozens, then hundreds of students rushed the field, all dressed in black. A midnight sea, draining from the stands down onto the pitch. They lifted the team high, singing and chanting. James and Odette were soon separated, but as her hand left his, and their last bit of contact was broken, he managed to hear her shout.

'Tell that to the little ginger bint!'


	26. Crinkled Pages & Tight-packed Gourds

'You should have seen the look on that Blue's face when you scored. He looked like his head was going to explode!'

'Personally, I enjoyed it most when Loyal snapped his broomstick across his knee after you kissed Odette.'

'He what?!' James spluttered, jerking upright for the first time in their History of Magic lesson. 'That's a state of the art Siberian Striker. Those things go for at least three hundred Galleons!'

'Tell you what,' Fred shot. 'I reckon I can fish the halves of it out the trash. I'll sell them both to you for fifty. Bargain.'

'The man is insane,' James breathed, aghast.

'Well, you _did_ sort of steal his girl,' Clip added.

Professor Binns, oblivious to all of this, continued to drone on in the background. With exams cancelled as part of the tournament, there was a notable lack of focus in the classrooms for these final few weeks of the year. As it was currently, one would be hard pressed to even hear the professor's voice over the veritable cacophony the third-years were making.

' _Ex-_ girl,' James corrected. 'And to hell with that. That broom was a-'

'Siberian Striker,' the group chorused. 'We get it.'

'Only James Potter could spend all term pursuing a girl and then forget about her the moment somebody mentions _Quidditch.'_

James couldn't see Cassie from where she sat behind him, but he just knew she was rolling her eyes.

'So… have you don't anything about it?' Fred asked, clearly fishing for gossip.

'Of course not. I only just found out he broke it. Where d'you think he tossed it-'

' _Odette!'_ the four of them yelled. Conveniently, just loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. A wave of not-so-subtle shifting of seats and sidelong glances threatened to overwhelm the group with their glaring obviousness.

'Oh, er… not really. Well, not at all.'

' _James!'_ Cat and Cassie hissed, as if he'd just admitted he threw a Kneazle off the North tower.

'That reminds me,' Fred said, diving into his satchel bag. He rummaged around among what sounded like a sackful of wind chimes, before produced something odd and lumpy, wrapped in brown paper. 'Dad was at the game. He said to give you this.'

James took the package uncertainly. 'What is it?'

'Don't open it here!' Fred hissed, panicked. 'It's something to keep you safe, for when you inevitably make a mess of things with Odette.'

'Who says I'll-'

Clip spontaneously burst into a coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like 'Holly Brooks.'

'You lot are as bad as my mother,' James grumbled, producing a crumpled note from his pocket that he'd received that very morning.

 _James, well done on the Quidditch results. Your father would be very proud. He should be back any day now. I did hear some rather troubling stories from your uncle about some post-match extra-curricular activities underneath the goal hoops._

 _I believe it is my duty as your mother to inform you that you are much too young to be indulging in such carry-on. Likewise, remember that I will be here for you when you inevitably mess it all up. That being said, I do so look forward to meeting her over the summer, and having her around for a family dinner._

 _Love and Kisses, Mum_

'Love and kisses,' chortled Fred.

'Why does _everybody_ think I'm going to fail at this?'

'Because, mate, you're _you.'_ Clip cryptically provided.

'You do have something of a penchant for the dramatic, James,' Cassie added, not unkindly.

'And Odette, well…'

'Do penchants come in the thousands?' Fred asked.

'It was rather a _James Potter_ thing to do,' Cassie continued. 'Kissing her in front of the entire school.'

'I disagree,' Cat said, speaking up for the first time. The group shot her quizzical looks. From a nearby row of seats, Rosalie Gardner was almost stretching off her chair, straining to listen. 'I think it was a very Odette Mansfield thing to do. Don't you, James?'

'Well, I mean…'

'She's been waiting, hasn't she? For almost a year now, for James to be ready. For him to be Odette- _worthy,_ at least in her eyes. For you to live up to everything she wants you to be. Now, you've won the Quidditch tournament. You're a hero across the school. Everyone wants to be your friend. And now she has you. It's perfect for her, and just in time for you to ask her to the Farewell Feast, as well.'

Cat immediately went back to staring out the window behind them, pulling faces at a bluebird that was trying to fly in through the shutters. The group were left staring at her in a wide array of shock.

'Oh, bollocks,' James muttered. He'd forgot about the Feast.

'I think you and I have a date with a certain, newly-liberated Book,' Fred whispered when the girls weren't looking.

It was all James could do to give a pale-faced nod in response.

The moment class was over, Fred James and Clip marched off to find Tristan. They dragged him off to the library, and attempted to find themselves a quiet corner to themselves.

'Hey James, nice job on the weekend!'

'Where'd you learn to fly like that James?'

'Is it true the Blues bit off your ear, and you put it back on yourself?'

The last one took James a little by surprise. It was rather alarming the depth and breadth of rumours that flew around the castle, any time something of note occurred. He'd been asked at least a half dozen times which Quidditch League side had offered him a contract over the weekend alone.

Although it earned them the immediate ire of Madam Cresswell, the Librarian, James didn't mind the attention and admiration thrown his way. He even stopped to sign the Potions book of a weedy little first year.

'Those bruises look so sore, James. You must be _so_ brave,' Leah Ridley sighed from a conspicuously unoccupied booth.

Truth be told, James had shied away from Madam Petheridge's ministrations immediately following the match, despite his team's insistence. And if his battle scars added a visual reminder of his heroics on the pitch to the boys and girls of Hogwarts, then all the more reason to keep them. He'd already been asked to show the gouge on his arm at least a dozen times. It had been transformed by hearsay from the scratchings of a desperate Chaser's nails to something that could have been done by a rampaging Hippogriff.

The legend of James Potter was coming along well, indeed.

'In here,' Tristan gestured, as the well-wishers finally abated. He stuffed James behind a lamp to keep him out of sight, and threw a furtive glance up and down their aisle. The coast was clear.

It was with shaking, reverent hands that Tristan withdrew the book from his bag. He held it aloft before them all, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

The book had certainly seen better days. Already shabby from what James could only assume was extensive use by Uncle Ron and his Dad, it had clearly lived a hard life this past year, the true victim of their – well, _Tristan's_ – almost religious zeal to recover it. One corner of the cover was folded over. There was a dark stain like spilled tea marring the artwork. A couple of pages were loose, clinging for dear life to the tired binding within. A small smudge of soot on the spine still lingered from where Cassie had tried, no fewer than three times, to set fire to it. Evidently Uncle Ron had foreseen such an occasion, as it had stubbornly resisted her best efforts.

Despite its tattered, scrappy nature, Tristan looked on as if it were his firstborn son as he cradled it gently before them.

'This is it, gentlemen.' His voice was quavering slightly in anticipation. 'The culmination of a year's worth of work. The knowledge of generations of wizards who have gone before, now made immortal in this most sacred of texts.'

'Well, are we going to open it?' James cut in, gesturing pointedly. Tristan paid him no heed. His face caught up in rapture.

'We have given much in the pursuit of this knowledge. Suffered much, in its protection. Some of us may never walk quite the same again,' here Fred gave a sheepish little wince. 'Our values have been tested, our morals challenged. The very ties that bind us have been strained, but gentlemen, I tell you, we have not been found wanting!'

Upon the last word, he slammed the book down on the table dramatically. Unfortunately, the gesture was ruined somewhat by the fragile nature of the bindings, and so they had to spend a frantic minute or two stuffing pages back in the correct order before Tristan would continue. This time, a little more tentatively.

'And so brace yourselves, my fellow disciples, for the journey of knowledge that we now prepare to undertake together. For we will emerge at the end of this tunnel unrecognizable from the men who entered. Farewell your ignorance, and your innocence. Shed your naïveté, for tonight, we ascend!'

' _Shhhhhh!'_ came a hiss from the direction of Madam Cresswell's desk.

Tristan opened the book to the first chapter.

 _An Introduction to the Principles Moste Basick_

 _The true art of charming a young witch is governed by a most simplistic set of tenets. Like Wandcraft itself, to master this form of magic, one must be intimately familiar with the basics. For it is an act as simple as a door held open, a textbook carried, or a smile proffered to quell an erstwhile foul mood that will sow the seeds of a most fruitful relationship._

 _As the title suggests, we shall outline our twelve tips for success for each of the chapters herein. We then encourage the young wizard to venture forth and embrace his new, Moste Charming Nature._

 _Point One – Classroom Etiquette: The ability to comport oneself in the Hallowed Halls of Learning is critical to the foundation of any relationship. The Classroom is the confines in which, dear reader, you shall spend the most time in company of the young Witch, and so it must be treated as a stage, with the onus to perform at the highest calibre._

 _For the mind of the young Witch – far more advanced and complex than thine own, let your humble author assure you – will know of this, and thus be aware of every interaction within said Hallowed Halls. Including, and perhaps of most import…_

'Can we skip to the chapter about asking girls out to the end-of-year Fest?' James asked impatiently.

'Slightly _unstable_ girls,' Clip added.

'No! Tristan barked. 'The knowledge must be acquired in order, lest we risk-'

But Fred wasn't listening, and he grabbed the book from the table, flicking straight to a page right near the end.

From his awkward spot behind the lamp, James was unable to see just what Fred saw when he opened that page. All he could make out from his vantage point was a single line of text:

 _And as we near the rear of this book, so too…_

Fred had snapped the book shut and pushed it away as if it had burned him. His olive skin was a ghostly grey, and his hands were shaking. His lips were struggling to stammer out cohesive words.

'P-p-p-pictures. T-there were _pictures,'_ he squeaked. 'They were _moving._ '

'Alas!' cried Tristan. 'He has seen too much. He has gazed too long into the maw, and reached too far. The darkness has touched him.'

James and Clip were eyeing both Fred and the Book with wary sidelong glances. Just what had been on that page?

'This must bring an abrupt end to our study of the Sacred Text,' Tristan informed them. Fred was shivering slightly, though the Library was perfectly warm.

'Why do I feel like the girls might have been doing us a favour in confiscating this?' Clip asked nobody in particular.

With the book away, Tristan cast his overly-dramatic mien aside. Fred was showing signs of human life once more. All three turned to look at James. It was Tristan who spoke.

'We're still stuck with the problem of how you're going to face down Odette.'

'Might I suggest with a very long pole?' Clip added. He'd been the most sceptical on James' Odette fascination from its inception.

'Merlin, Clip!' Tristan roared. 'Whatever you're in to, I guess. Just make sure it's a quiet broom closet-'

'Ergh, no! I meant-!'

'Hang on a minute,' James said, interrupting the conversation. 'No you bloody don't.'

He'd just seen a shimmery length of strawberry-blonde hair meandering through the bookshelves outside their booth. Hair that was attached to a young Ravenclaw with whom he had a very large bone to pick.

'Rain.' He said with a glower, slipping deftly out of the booth and cutting her off. He wished he was a touch taller, so that he could loom over her menacingly.

Despite his best efforts, she looked entirely unfazed. 'James Potter.'

'You and I need to _talk.'_

'I think somewhere more secluded is appropriate, don't you?'

James nodded, and stomped off into the depths of the library, keeping a sidelong eye on Rain, in case she decided to try anything. The shelves grew narrower and the lights grew sparser as they progressed. Soon, his footfalls were kicking up tiny puffs of dust from the moth-eaten, threadbare rugs that ran the length of the aisles.

At the end of their row, the iron grille of the gate marking the restricted section loomed tall and foreboding. The stump of a single candle flickered fitfully near the entrance, serving to do little more than illuminate the heavy lock that barred the way through.

Deeming them to be sufficiently out of the public eye, James cornered Rain against a bookshelf, causing a small shower of dust to cascade down onto the pair of them like unsightly snow.

His assertive questioning charade was derailed somewhat by the sneezing fit that they both devolved into, and the subsequent sheepish smile she flashed him, cheeks flushed, and eyes watering from the outburst.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, glaring up at the stack of books, piled drunkenly above their heads. Then, 'why'd you do it?'

They both knew exactly what he was referring to.

'I would have thought that obvious; I was trying to protect you.'

'You could have told me. You didn't need to steal it from me. I'd have given it to you.'

'Would you?'

James hesitated, only for a second. But it was enough.

'I didn't have the time to try and explain to you why you needed to hand it over,' Rain huffed, colour rising in her cheeks.

'Because you thought I wouldn't trust you? Or because you didn't trust _me?_ '

'Don't be ridiculous James Potter-'

'Don't you " _don't be ridiculous James Potter"_ me,' he snapped, 'we agreed to this whole plan together. We're a _team_. Does that mean nothing to you?'

'I maintain that I was acting in both of our best interests. Had you been caught-'

'We could have figured something else out. If you'd only _asked._ I agreed to this to help you. To maybe get us a shot at stopping the Infected from overrunning the whole country, but most of all, because I saw what happened in Hogsmeade. I saw what it did to you. I vowed to do what I could to make sure that wouldn't happen again. Because you're my _friend,_ Rain.'

'Well I apologise if I have upset your sensibilities, James Potter,' she said, stepping clear of where he'd cornered her against the bookshelf. She fished around in a deep pocket of her robe. The object she brought forth winked coyly in the dim light, and looked out of place for being so clean, amidst a dust-filled world.

James took the proffered vial and clutched it tightly. The liquid was warm against his palm.

'You don't get a thank you,' he told her, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

'James,' she started, with a heavy sigh. 'I'm sorry if I haven't always been the best friend. It is not a concept I have ever been familiar with. I am sorry if it feels that there are things you have the right to know. You are right, in a way. I have not been entirely truthful with you. But know that I have not done so lightly, and it is not without due cause that I make these decisions. They weigh on me. So much, I have wanted to tell you, from the first day I arrived at Hogwarts. This is my promise to you: when we have achieved what we set out to achieve here, I will tell you all. Everything I have wanted to tell, everything you could possibly want to know. It will be yours.'

An earnest light shone in her eyes. It could have been real. James wasn't sure he could tell anymore.

'You've promised this before. And fed me snippets, only to turn around and do the same again. Why else would we be having this conversation?'

'You have my word, James.'

'So you are asking me to trust you, _now?_ '

She pursed her lips for a moment. A slight hesitation before she bent her arms behind her neck and began fidgeting.

'Very well. Then I offer you this, in place of my word.'

The shining golden chain of Rain's Locket was pooled in her hand. The deep blue sapphire, almost as large as a hen's egg, glowed with a serene light. James gaped at the amulet that they'd fought so hard for last year. Her lifeline. And she was handing it to him.

'I can survive without it,' she said in response to his awestruck look. 'For a time, at least. Take it James, please. It matters to me that you hold to your faith. When this is over, I shall tell you everything. And only then, shall you return the Amulet to me.'

James accepted it reverently. The chain coiled into his hand like molten gold. The gemstone sat atop it was inexplicably heavy for its size. It felt warm to the touch. He stashed it in his pocket, careful not to tangle the chain.

'Thank you,' was all he could find to say.

Rain nodded in understanding. Their meeting had come to an end, albeit a somewhat awkward and uncertain one. James asked her once again to turn around as he strapped the vial back to its place across his chest. They left their meeting place at the same time, but somehow not really together.

James was too caught up in fumbling with stubborn buttons on his shirt before he realised they had company.

'Well, fancy seeing the two of you here. _Together.'_

'Oh _bloody-_ hi Odette.'

'Your friends told me you'd be back here.'

'Well wasn't that swell of them.' James' tone was drier than the pages of the unused books surrounding them.

'You certainly are a persistent one,' Odette snarled in Rain's direction.

'Perhaps James needed a palate cleanse after tasting something nasty.'

The flash of teeth Odette shot in Rain's direction could hardly be called a smile. Mercifully, rain sauntered off without another word, and as she finally disappeared behind a bookshelf James let out the breath he'd been holding.

'Is this some kind of a game to you, Potter?' Odette asked him. It stung a little that she wouldn't even use his first name.

'We weren't doing _anything,_ 'he protested.

'Your unbuttoned shirt says otherwise.'

'I _swear-'_

'Well then, what _were_ you doing?'

James froze. He couldn't exactly tell her he was harbouring the highly illegal and potentially dangerous substance that the teachers were currently turning the castle inside out to try and find underneath his shirt. Whatever she read into his hesitation, it soured her disposition. She pursed her lips into a thin line and spun angrily away. James had to scurry to keep up.

'You're going to have to cancel, you know,' she told him. They were making their way out of the library. A wave of stares followed their every move, and a rustle of whispers like shifting pages chased them all the way out to the corridor. 'With Rain. Whatever plans you two had been making.'

James froze. Odette took three more stops before realising he was no longer with her. How long had she been there? What had she heard? James tried to respond, but all that came out was a dry sort of croak.

'The Feast, obviously.' Odette was looking at him like he was stupid. 'Don't think I don't know why she's all over you all of a sudden.'

'Oh. _That._ She's not-'

'She's still harbouring a grudge from last year, I'll bet. The incident on the train. Thinks she can get back at me by stealing you away. Pathetic.'

'Er, hello. I'm right here.'

'The Feast is in two weeks. It's the last weekend of the year, so it will be all anyone talks about over summer. You can pick me up from the common room at six. I'll be wearing green. _Don't_ mess it up.'

She cupped his cheek with one manicured hand and flashed a simpering smile. James' mind felt rather like the aftermath of a whirlwind. Everything was jumbled about and he was struggling to find anything worthwhile to say.

 _Well, that saves one problem._

'Odette, wait!' he called, as she started walking away. A few onlookers heard his cry, and quickly made an effort to pretend not to be listening. A little quieter, he added; 'does this mean that we're… you know…'

'Spit it out, James. We're neither of us nine years old anymore.'

' _Together.'_ The best he could manage was a whisper. And not even a forceful one.

'Ha!' her bark of laughter was loud and jarring, and more than a little hurtful. 'After what happened on the Quidditch Pitch? I've kissed my mother with more enthusiasm.'

James failed at letting the sting her words caused show on his features. She paused one last time, flicking her curtain of blonde hair over her shoulder. 'But you're up for consideration.'

With a wink and a smile, Odette Mansfield strutted off. And James Potter, once again, was left with the sensation of having narrowly survived some sort of natural disaster.

* * *

Harry Potter pushed himself up from his knees. His whole body ached. His joints were swollen and stiff. His lips chapped and his mouth dry. Welts and bites and lesions dotted every inch of his exposed, sun-baked skin. He'd given up trying to fight nature. As it was, it was taking all of his energy to combat the wholly unnatural abomination before him.

The cave looked no different than the day he had arrived in the small clearing. Nets of creepers and verdant vines draped over the weathered stonework. The mouth yawned black and endless, defying even the sweltering midday sun that assailed him at that very moment. A few water-worn etchings around the mouth could have been Runes, or merely nature's blunt claws dragging ceaselessly across the face of the unyielding rock.

The only changes to the area were marks of his own presence. A tiny hut and cot in one corner where he slept fitfully through the night. His meagre pile of belongings. A beaten track through the bush where he staggered to relieve himself when his body allowed. And the churned earth before him where he would flail and lash in pain after every failed attempt at his goal.

And there were plenty of instances of that.

He'd approached the cave more tentatively, after the first disaster. That one had taken him a full day to recover from. A day of fever and vomiting like he'd never known. He thought for a bitter moment that he'd contracted the Infection himself, and briefly considered abandoning the mission entirely.

He would have tried to Apparate out of there after that restless, fever-stricken night's sleep, had it not been for the small pile of tropical fruits and mouldy waterskin that had appeared at the foot of his bed that morning. The fruit was ripe and soft and energizing more than it had any right to be. The water was cool and clear. The smell of the beaten waterskin mattered not to his desperate lips and parched throat.

He'd not recalled fetching anything, though his night had been so riddled with phantasms and nightmares from his fever, anything could be possible. However, he became even more certain that he wasn't alone after the second and then third instance of such offerings. Each time, after he passed out from his attempts, he awoke in his cot. A ratty woven blanket was tossed over his shoulders. Sustenance for another day heaped at his feet.

Perhaps it was his sense of duty, of not leaving a task – particularly one so important to the fate of so many – unfinished. Perhaps it was the burgeoning sense of companionship with his newfound, secret guardian. Or perhaps, as Ginny had suggested on many an occasion, he simply possessed a self-flagellating desire to suffer in the name of good. Whatever it was, he had stayed in that damned clearing far longer than he had any of intention of when the mission began. And one, or a combination of all three, drove him to push himself up on shaking legs each morning and face down that darkness. A darkness with which he was growing more and more familiar. A darkness, a nothingness, that he felt resembled himself more and more each day.

The wards were unlike anything he had ever seen before in his life. They were set to stop magic only – they held no danger to a physical presence. He could have walked right in to the cave at any time, as Teddy had, all those months ago. But it wasn't their purpose that was so vexing, it was the way they had been crafted. So alien, so foreign and distinct from everything Harry knew about magic.

Though he was no expert with Runes and Warding, he had a fair amount of experience in both. Generally, he likened subverting a ward to picking apart a spider's web. The way they were crafted was through the painful and exhaustive layering of protective spells, one over the other, in a sort of mesh. And primed in such a way that they were sensitive to the presence of intruders, or magic, or whatever the desired target may be. The trick was understanding the intricate array that they created, sensing it, and the order of its creation. Being able to pick apart the threads, _in the correct order_ was paramount to successful destruction of a ward. The wrong thread in the wrong order could quite often leave the would-be Dismantler as little more than a smoking pair of boots in a crater the size of most houses.

But here, there was no sense of _threads,_ or _order_ at all. It was as if the creator had simply forced raw Magical Flux into place to guard this cave. As if they'd jammed a handful of square bricks to plug a round hole. The result was that Harry could _sense_ that there were multiple individual spells, multiple iterations of the work. But it felt as if, in the forcing in to place, the lines between them had been muddied, blurred and melted together. So that he could get the sense of one, individual piece of defensive magic. And as he probed it, searching for weaknesses, he would suddenly find himself dealing with a completely different part of the ward. A part that was immune to all of his ministrations and required a completely different approach to defeat.

It was frustrating, exhausting and, so far, fruitless. Not to mention every mistake was punished brutally, with another wave of pain on a level with some of the worst Cruciatus Curses he'd ever faced.

He'd taken to yelling at the trees in frustration most nights as he lay in bed. They didn't answer back, save only to rustle with the occasional laughter at his failings.

That very morning, he'd asked them if he was going mad. They'd nodded back and waved, taunting.

Now, after another failed attempted, he stomped back towards his cot, seeking sustenance. He scowled at the bundle of fruits and roots that his hidden saviour had provided. Today, he'd packed them into a woven mesh sack. They were jammed in so tight that the strings were cutting into the flesh of some of the fruit, causing them to bleed a pale yellow ichor into a small puddle on the earth below.

He searched the bag for an opening, found none, and swore. Never mind the fact that these small gifts were his only sustenance out here, and possibly all that was keeping him alive, the extra effort required simply seemed like too much today.

But as he grabbed his wand and slit one of the strands, causing a cascade of fruit all over his grubby cot, his expression slowly began to change.

He bolted upright, the quickest he'd moved in weeks. The fruit lay forgotten all over the floor of his hut. The remnants of the sack in which they'd came in one hand, wand in the other, he paced slowly towards the cave.

'That's it,' he growled. His voice hoarse and cracked.

He'd been going about it all wrong. Trying to pick apart these Wards as if they were something they're not. Trying to coax out one string of magic from a chaotic, tightly-pressed melange. He'd been trying to pull the fruit out through the mesh bag the whole time. Whereas what he'd _needed_ to do was to find the weak point, find whatever it was that was holding all of the damned square blocks in the stupid round hole, and then everything would spring apart in an explosion of nasty, magical fruit.

Harry Potter smiled menacingly at the cave before him and raised his wand.

'Time to try a little bit of force.'


	27. Scented Vials & Green Dresses

'Has the little Lion got lost?'

'Where's the poor little kitty's friends?'

'The hell is a Gryffindor doing in the Slytherin common room?'

These were among some of the less vehement responses that James' presence was currently eliciting from among his Slytherin classmates as he stood, practically twiddling his thumbs, in the middle of their common room while waiting for Odette.

The room was far longer than it was wide. The untamed stone was rough and rugged, the uneven cut cast looming shadows that danced and entwined themselves betwixt the eerie green light of the lanterns, hung at regular intervals down the wall. A large fireplace was filling the tense silence with a merry pop and crackle, clueless as to the awkwardness that raged on mere metres away.

Above that fireplace, sitting in pride of place on the mantel was a giant portrait of a serpent, entwined through the Slytherin coat of arms. It may have merely been a trick of James' stressed imagination, but he swore he could see the great beast moving from the corner of his eye, though whenever he looked directly at it, it stood still as stone.

Perhaps it was in on the joke as well.

James was uncertain if it was the dark, foreboding décor, or the hostile welcome he'd thus far received, but really _felt_ like he were deep underground here, in a way that few other dungeons within the castle could make him feel. The jagged, uncarved walls seemed to be reaching out, fragments of stone stretching into the room, trying to claim back the space. Reminding them how close to nature they truly were down here. He could practically feel the weight of the Lake above them bearing down, eager to swallow them whole.

' _Expelliarmus!'_

Then again, it could just be the disposition of some of the room's inhabitants.

'Give it back, Anthony.' James' hip was stinging where the spell had hit him. He turned to face Anthony Greengrass and his leering grin. He now clutched both James' wand and his own in his thick, meaty fists.

'If nobody else is gonna step up and do it, I will,' he growled. 'We don't allow outsiders in here, 'specially not armed ones.'

'Yea real brave of you, hexing me from behind,' James shot back.

'You don't stop running that mouth and I'll hex you from in front right now.' He lowered both wands at James with a threatening glare.

'Try it, Greengrass. I've heard Professor Budd say you struggle to master spells with _one_ wand, let alone two.'

'You'll pay for that, Potter. _Rictusempra!'_

James dove low to his left, rolling lithely behind a nearby sofa. But he needn't have bothered. There was no wave of unassailable laughter coming his way, no crack and fizzle of spells zipping narrowly over his head. In fact, as he looked up to see what _had_ happened, he saw his own wand arcing gracefully through the air, end-on-end towards him.

And Anthony Greengrass stood in the middle of the room, now clad only in his underwear, his dress robes nowhere in sight.

James wanted nothing more than to laugh uproariously in Greengrass' face, but he did his very best to remain calm and impassive. Meanwhile secretly thanking his wand a thousand times over for remaining loyal. A few of the older Slytherin student's who'd gathered to watch the spectacle were closing in, some very dark looks adorning their faces.

'Already making friends, I see.'

The entire room paused to face the new entrant. James hastily pushed himself up to his feet. He tried in vain to brush off a scuff mark from his dress robe.

He wasn't sure if everyone else in the room was staring as much as he. His eyes were focused on one person, and one person only.

Odette Mansfield stood alone in the dormitory doorway. She wore a long, deep green dress fashioned with gold and silver that sparkled in the muted, eerie light of the Slytherin common room. The twinkle and glimmer made her the brightest point in the room. Her hair hung loose – uncommon, for her – and fell down past her shoulders in ringlets. The faded, ashen blonde framed the subtle, honey curves of her neck and exposed shoulders.

For James, it seemed as the whole perspective of the room changed the moment she had entered it. As if, all of a sudden, the rest of them were gravitating around her. That every point in the room could be measured and quantified by how far it stood from Odette Mansfield in that very moment. James was currently of the opinion that he stood much too far apart, and so sought to remedy that by taking several steps in her direction. It took a serious, concerted effort to tear his eyes away from her and form something of a coherent, understandable sentence.

' _HiOdetteyoulooklovely._ ' Well, almost coherent and understandable.

'A little early in the evening to be whipping your clothes off, I'd have thought boys. A little optimistic, too Greengrass, judging by the state of… that.'

Either completely oblivious, or – more likely – completely content with the impact her sudden presence had had on the room, Odette proffered one gracile, gloved arm to James, and led him out without so much as a glance backward. It wasn't until the grating of stone upon stone announced the closure of the common room door that James finally let out the breath he had been holding.

'Charming lot, these Slytherins,' he said.

Odette's painted lips quirked in amusement. 'And yet here you are, about to attend your _second_ formal function attached to the arm of one.'

James chastised himself internally. Even his conversation felt fumbling and childish next to Odette. He was still spending every other moment as they ascended from the dungeons snatching glances at her from the corner of his eye. It wasn't so much one single thing that she wore or did or said, as it was the entire, flawless package that came together from all of it. It was the sliver of tanned midriff on display, just little enough to remain decent. It was the dangling, golden earrings she wore that ought to have been too garish for such an outfit, but somehow stole no attention away from her dark, smoky eyes. It was the silken glove alighted so gently on James' outstretched arm; the exaggerated sway of her hips, and by Merlin, it was that slit in her dress that every so often flashed a length of leg that just kept on going and snared James' full attention every single time.

On their own, or perhaps on somebody else, the ensemble could have easily been too much. Seemed as if she were trying too hard. The way that every part of her outfit seemed a centrepiece, all fighting for attention. It wouldn't have worked for just anybody. But for Odette – and her easy confidence with it all – it was perfect.

In comparison, James felt like the Giant Squid stuffed into a pair of dress robes. He'd spent at least an hour beforehand tucking and folding and trying to Charm the creases out of his outfit, yet still he couldn't manage to straighten his tie or centre his belt just right. He wore a cloak of green so dark it was almost black, and a tie to match Odette's dress. His dress robes had a stiff, formal collar, and silver scrollwork around the cuffs and hems. It had met Odette's stern approval at the time, but that didn't stop it from feeling uncomfortable and awkward.

She'd insisted every item of his outfit fit him perfectly, to within an inch. It meant for an unfortunate tendency for his trousers to ride up aggressively if he stepped too long, and it had led to a frustrating half hour trying to find a way to strap the Sap to his person without a glaringly obvious bulge showing through his shirt. He'd eventually given it up as a bad job and just stuffed the vial into his trouser pocket, exasperated and already running late. So long as he wasn't doing any backflips on the dancefloor, it should be safe.

They made much of the trip in silence. James spent a larger portion of it than he'd care to admit fumbling for something intelligent to say. Odette had spent the better part of a year finessing the art of keeping him off balance. All in practice, it seemed, for this night. It wasn't until they reached the ground floor, and the sound of the milling students began to wash in through the corridor before them, that she spoke up.

'You needn't be so uptight, you know.'

James sighed, and they halted their progress momentarily, a few feet away from the door that would lead them to the Entrance Hall.

'The last time I did one of these things, it didn't go too well. Don't want to mess it up again.'

She took one of his hands in both of hers. The smile she gave him was earnest and open. Her earrings glinted and flashed in the torchlight as she shook her head. 'You won't, James. I trust you.'

She squeezed his hand as she said the words. He offered her a smile back that was much more confident than he felt.

'And besides, this time I'm already on your side. What could possibly go wrong?'

One final wink and she turned, leading him on through the door and out into the Entrance Hall proper, where their night was about to begin.

The opening of the Feast was a colourful blur of dresses and flowers and faux-polite greetings to people James only really knew by sight. He was introduced to Slytherins and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs that he'd never so much as spoken to in his life. Some were from wealthy families with money older than Hogwarts itself. Some had families steeped in political heritage. Some, like her, were prodigies in sport or academia. Most were incredibly well connected. All were unbelievably popular around the school.

James was thankful for the house elves scuttling around underfoot. Each was adorned with a tray laden with Butterbeer and honeyed mead, crammed on so precariously that there must have been some magic involved. It wasn't until he finished his second drink – almost in one long swig – that he began to feel the warmth seeping through his chest, dissolving the nerves that had kept him in such a tight grip.

It was nevertheless a great relief when the bell finally rang, announcing the impending dinner service through inside the Great Hall.

There was a rolling wave of "ooh's" and "aah's" as the students shuffled through to be seated. As they crossed the threshold together, James couldn't help but to nod appreciatively at the décor that had been laid out.

Once again, the long house tables had been done away with, in favour of a myriad of smaller settings suited for ten or so, dotted about the room. Where the Ball earlier in the year had been designed to welcome in autumn and the colder months of winter, this time the decorations were a celebration of the oncoming summer. Light still streamed in through the high, arched windows. It illuminated the shining golden plates adorning the bare wooden tables, tucked in between veritable mountains of greenery and foliage. Bright flowers and lush, fat leaves draped down over tables' edges, creeping across the floor in a haphazard sort of verdant network of veins, circulating the rich, green lifeblood between all of the tables.

A warm, balmy air permeated the room, in spite of the fireplaces not being lit. Instead, a thick scattering of sand was cascading out from each of the long hearths, and the gentle lapping of waves on the shore added a lulling background music to the excited murmur of student voices that electrified the air around them.

Odette seemed to have exhausted her desire to socialise among her higher circles, and was content to let James muster up his friends and grab a table together. He found Tristan stuffing his pockets with armloads of Butterbeer, an amorous Chloe Swann clinging to his arm as if her life depended on it. Fred, he found cramming some of the magical beach sand into his pockets by the fireplace. He looked rather sheepish when Rosie Gardner appeared at his side. He and James had both sworn off their fellow Gryffindor third years after the last Ball. Over the space of six months, they'd been set alight, chased all around the castle, and _both_ been poisoned courtesy of the unwanted attentions of that pair. Cat was wandering around among the tables, adamant that she'd had a date at one point, yet somehow managed to lose the poor soul. If it were Pot-Head again, he'd likely escaped on his own to cause further mischief elsewhere.

The remaining omissions from their group were made even more obvious as they pulled up chairs around a table, craning to make conversation with each other over the plant-life.

'Anyone seen Cassie or Clip?' Tristan asked.

'Not since the night started,' Fred replied.

'You don't think they…?'

'Together?'

'No… surely not. I'll eat this plant.'

'Get chewing, Tristan old boy. Look who it is!'

Both Clip and Cassie's faces were vibrant shades of red, and they were a little skittish about making eye contact with the rest of the group, who were in various degrees of delight or shock or both.

'Well neither of us had found the time to procure alternative arrangements, so we deemed it prudent to attend with one another,' Cassie eventually snapped, following a solid minute of Fred subtly nudging her and winking.

'Yea,' Clip followed. 'What she said.'

The final addition to their table was a surprise one, and caused them all to sit a little straighter, something of a hush falling over the group.

'Oh, lighten up you bunch of squares,' Professor Meadows laughed, sliding into the final chair and sighing as the weight was taken off her missing leg. 'I'm not here to give you all detention. Renshaw's orders-' and here, Professor Meadows put on a shrill mockery of their Headmistress' voice. '"Go and mingle with the students. Make sure they behave. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious.""

The group was caught, unsure whether to laugh at the frankly awful impersonation. Cassie looked as if her head was about to explode – she'd been about to reprimand the Professor. But then realised that she was a _Professor._

For James' part, he patted the pocked he'd stored the Sap in, just to make sure. He was certain that the possession of a highly illicit substance was _precisely_ what Renshaw had in mind when she spoke of something "suspicious".

As if the mere thought of the Headmistress had summoned her, a swooping silence descended on the room as Galatea Renshaw swept into their midst, garbed in a long, flowing black cape and gown that might have been more fitting at a funeral, than their summer-themed feast.

'Good evening, students,' she said from a small, raised dais where the staff table usually sat. Was it a trick of the light, or was she looking a little harried? 'Welcome, to the final night of the Junior Triwizard Competition for Magical Excellence. You have, each and every one of you, performed phenomenally up until this point, and the competition is fierce! Tomorrow's Duelling tournament is the final event, and may well decide the Tournament Champion!'

There was a scattering of applause from the students. Mostly from Durmstrang and Hogwarts members. Their defeat on the Quidditch pitch had almost certainly knocked the Blues out of the running. James took immense pleasure in the fact.

'I will not delay your reverie overmuch with long-winded speeches and excessive waffling. I wish only to speak on some of the things that I have observed throughout this tournament, and perhaps impart a sliver of knowledge unto you.'

The drooping palm fronds adorning their table offered each pair a modicum of privacy. Odette had taken to lazily tracing circles with one gloved finger on the back of James' outstretched hand. Her glazed expression suggested she might not have even been aware of what she was doing. James dared not move his hand, for risk of upsetting the calming ritual.

'I have seen in all of you, throughout the year, many qualities that suggest you shall become great witches and wizards. The bold and the daring. The honest and open. The bonds that have been forged between new friends, and strengthened among old. But most of all, I have seen a burning desire to strive for the best. To win, to achieve glory for yourselves and your school.'

Here, Odette seemed to snap out of her reverie to nudge James and wink. She'd worn the medal they got from their Quidditch victory for a full week after the match.

'This is a trait most admirable, and let nobody ever stop you from being the best witch or wizard you can be. But let me temper the sentiment by saying this: Your victory will be for naught if, to achieve it, you have sacrificed your values along the way. The glories will taste of ash in your mouth if you gave up the person you once were to attain them.

'There may come a time when you are faced with such a choice. When the path you are taking forks before you. Know that, if you choose what is right by you, then that assurance will guide you through the trials you may face ahead. But if you leave behind everything that brought you that far, you may never be able to get it back.

'Do what is right. Do what you think is right. Though others may test you, this is the only option through which you will truly win.'

With that, she descended from the dais and stalked from the room once more. A scattering of applause followed her, underlain by the murmur of confused whispers.

'That was a touch depressing,' Odette said, distracted.

'Or ominous,' James agreed. It was odd, for sure. This tournament was Renshaw's creation, her baby. To leave now and miss out on the celebrations of the culmination of it was uncharacteristic.

Though he thought he had an inkling of what her preoccupations might be.

As abruptly as Renshaw had vanished, the food appeared on their table, tucked in between and around the foliage, so that accessing most of it was something of an adventure in miniature. There were plates of meats and vegetables of every variety imaginable, as well as some less recognizable things, which James decided must have been part of the tropical, summery theme. The insistence on adding fruit where fruit ought not to be kept him away from that fare, for the most part.

The group passed the meal amicably, though somewhat subdued. It was, after all, a little odd to have a teacher sat in their midst. Although Professor Meadows did go some way to alleviate the awkwardness by telling them stories of her own years at Hogwarts, such as the time she and some friends had tried to fill one of the Potions dungeons with water to create a swimming pool. She told them with confidence that the Slytherins hadn't minded when it leaked all through their dormitory, as "snakes like flopping around in the water".

There had been a somewhat tense moment as she and Odette shared an inexplicably frosty glare.

She then – after confiscating six of the bottles of Butterbeer Tristan had stashed about his person – proceeded to down three of them in one great swig, before letting loose an eye-watering belch that shook their table and caused a blanket of quiet to fall across several surrounding groups.

'Disgusting,' Odette breathed.

' _Hic-_ bite me.'

At the beginning of the night, James never would have thought he'd be looking forward to the end of the meal – it meant the beginning of the dancing, after all – but the burgeoning tension about the table made it a relief to finally excuse himself with Odette, and make their way toward the dancefloor, which had been set up outside to make the most of the mild June evening. He left Fred, Tristan and Clip spouting an impressive depth and breadth of excuses as to why _now_ wasn't the best time to dance. He heard the phrase "perhaps after the next song" uttered no fewer than a half dozen times.

Odette looped her arm through his, and together they made their way along with the steady trickle of students toward the courtyard outside.

'To think that the night is nearly behind us, and only now do we get our first moment alone.' She gave a sigh as she said it, as if a weight was shifting from her shoulders.

'Aye. It'll only be us and the fifty others we're sharing the dancefloor with. Most intimate.'

As much as James dreaded the upcoming necessity of taking to the dancefloor, Odette's words to him in the weeks leading up to this night still rang harsh in his ears. _"You're in the running."_ She'd made his position perfectly clear. And as much as it pained him, he damn well wasn't going to drop _out_ of the running because he was too scared to dance.

The things he did for girls… He was starting to believe whoever it was that had told him they'd be the death of him yet.

'Steady on,' she smiled, giving his shoulder a playful nudge. 'We'll not be dancing right away. Come, watch. You must get a _feel_ for the dancefloor. Understand it, so that we might make our entrance when the time is just right.'

They made their way over to a private table, secluded by one of the many hedges that had been erected throughout the courtyard. They were crammed full of softly twinkling fairy lights, all beginning to come to life now that the sun had finally sunk beneath the distant horizon. The dancefloor was a raised platform of polished wood, and the knot of students milling about atop it were slowly beginning to look like dancers, as nerves eased and muscles let go of some of the tenseness that surrounded such an event.

'See that couple?' Odette gestured to a pair of older, awkward-looking Ravenclaws. James swiped a pair of drinks from a nearby house elf. 'He's about to trod on her toes one too many times, and she'll storm off in a huff. And that pair over there?' This time it was an older Gryffindor that James recognized, with a Hufflepuff he didn't. 'Look at his face. He's about to go in for a kiss. He knows it. She knows it. _We_ even know it. And none of us want it to happen, but…'

Sure enough, the poor, brave soul went for it. And was promptly rejected. Both scurried from the dancefloor in embarrassment. Followed not long after by the gawky Ravenclaws, with the young man's arm held out in clear apology.

James looked to Odette, impressed.

'Am I, or am I not amazing?'

Standing there, lit by the soft, silvery glow of the fairy lights, her eyes glimmering gently, James could find no cause to disagree. Struck by a sudden notion, he turned away from the dancefloor to face Odette. The moon cast shadows across her face, accentuating high cheekbones, and the tiny dimples on either side of her collarbone. She brushed a length of hair back, over one shoulder. She had one, tiny freckle beneath her left eye that James had never noticed before. He only knew now because their faces were so close together.

Odette was no longer gazing into his eyes, now. Her focus, instead was downwards. James looked at her lips in turn. Saw them parted, expectant. As her scent washed over him he began to close his eyes, awaiting the pressure of her soft lips against his. He-

'Oi, Potter!'

The tentative quiescence of their moment together was left shattered in pieces at their feet. Both James and Odette physically jumped. Odette swore in a way that made James raise his eyebrows.

Anthony Greengrass was staring in to their little alcove. Thankfully, now fully clothed. He wore a scowl that promised violence, and was gesturing at James and Odette.

'You better watch your back tonight, Potter.'

'Has your sister let you out of your pen to play?' Odette mocked.

'Stay out of it, you cheap-'

'Anthony, that's _enough_.'

A fourth participant entered their conversation. She wore a simple black dress, and her long, raven hair was braided intricately all the way down her back. James watched as Holly Brooks forcibly dragged Anthony Greengrass out of earshot, not once looking back to acknowledge them.

'Well, it looks as if you'll have to work a little harder than _that,_ ' Odette said with a sly smile. Her words were coy, but her cheeks were flushed, and she was biting her lower lip in disappointment. She'd been just as caught up in what had _almost_ happened as James had. For some reason, that left him a little comforted.

'Anthony and _Holly?'_ he asked, aghast.

'Why,' teased Odette. 'We're not jealous, are we?'

'I just thought Slytherin house, sort of, _hated_ her.'

'Oh, the girls still do. With great enthusiasm, for the most part. But our young boys, well… they found her past a little easier to overlook once they saw what she could do on a Duelling Platform.'

'They fancy her because she's a good duellist?'

'Oh James,' Odette laughed, reaching out to lay a hand casually on his arm. It was the first contact since they'd nearly… and it sent a jolt of electric energy through James at the sheer potential of what it _could_ be. Of what it might become. 'Sometimes I do worry about you… Have you not seen her with your own eyes? The way she fights? The grace of her movements, the beauty, the fluidity with which she glides across the stage. It's this raw, sensual power that's so unlike her at any other time. It draws you in, wanting more…'

' _Now_ who's the jealous one?' James shot with a smile.

Odette's answering laugh was musical. 'She has her stage, and I have mine. Come.'

With no further warning, she grabbed James by the arm, and they were marching up to the dancefloor. A song was just beginning. It was slow and intimate. Couples were fleeing the area left and right, uncertain and unable to read how their night was going, so unwilling to risk failure in the tender moments that were a part of such a dance. Only a few were left by the time they arrived. Mostly older. All had their arms wrapped around one another. James followed suit, even before Odette had to prompt him. The impressed smile he received was worth it.

This was to be his moment. The night had been going so well thus far. He'd prepared himself for this for two weeks. James Potter wasn't a man who settled with being _"in the running"._ In the running didn't win Quidditch Championships. He was going to end the _running_ tonight, or he was going to damn well go down trying.

As the music started, they slowly began to sway. James was more than happy to cede the lead to Odette, and she guided them slowly but surely towards the centre of the floor. Into a place where they could clearly be seen by all gathered.

The song for James was written in subtle shifts and adjustments of his body and Odette's. He opened his hips a little more, and she shifted her leg closer. A slight adjustment of his shoulders was met in kind. Lifting his hand – no – _lowering_ his hand from where it was alighted on her hip brought forth a satisfied smile. It was the dance within the dance, the testing and trying and adjusting to see just how they fit best with one another, and it had its own back and forth rhythm.

It was an intimacy that brought forth many of the same emotions as their moment at the table earlier, but was also vastly different. Where before, the closeness had been wrought of the finest crystal – delicate and breathtaking, but shattered at the finest touch – this one was not even solid at all. It was the togetherness of water and oil. Never quite conjoined, but as one moved and flowed, the other followed to take its place, perfectly melded and intertwined. And as Odette leant in to rest her head on James' shoulder, he felt as if they really were inseparable.

'Mind if I cut in?'

A rough shoulder connected with James' jaw, causing him to bite down on his tongue, and forcing he and Odette apart. Stunned and off balance, the following shove sent him staggering backwards and off the dancefloor. The short drop was enough for him to crack his tailbone on the unforgiving cobblestones of the courtyard. He writhed in pain on the ground as a small circle began to cluster around. He lost sight of Odette among the onlookers. Up on stage, the music continued, most too wrapped up in their own private encounters, oblivious to James' plight.

'Think you can embarrass me in front of my House and get away with it, Potter?' Anthony Greengrass appeared at the lip of the stage, sneering down at James. His wand was lowered.

'You don't need my help to be an embarrassment,' James growled through gritted teeth.

'Why you- _Expelliarmus!'_

Expecting the retaliation, James had already begun rolling to his left. He swiped his wand from his pocket as he made the move and fired a wild Leg-Locker in Greengrass' direction. The spell missed, but the resulting duck for cover from his opponent bought James the time he needed to get to his feet.

Rage seethed within his chest. At Greengrass, for his interruption. At Holly, for not keeping him in check, and at himself for letting his guard down.

' _Diffindo!'_ James swore as he danced out of the way of the Cutter. But not quick enough. He felt something punch into his hip with significant force. He spun, levelled his wand again.

' _Expelliarmus!'_ He watched with glee as Anthony Greengrass' wand shot up high into the air. But he didn't appear fazed by the loss. Nor, for that matter, were any of the crowd. They were too busy staring intently at a little glass phial that was still tinkering about on the cobbles at James' feet. Suspiciously undamaged despite the force of the spell that had torn James' dress robe to shreds.

'What's that?' someone cried.

'Some sort of potion?'

'It's that bloody plant juice!' cried Greengrass. 'Potter has it! He's stolen the Sap!'

Before James could react, students were yelling and shoving in their haste to get away. Their little corner of the courtyard was upended into chaos that began to spread onto the dancefloor. The music halted. James looked around wildly, frozen. Before he could make a move, he felt a hand grab him by the collar and nearly lift him clean off his feet.

'You're coming with me, Potter.' Professor Meadows' face appeared in his vision, a twisted mask of anger.

She frogmarched him back through the gathered crowd, with dozens of eyes boring into him, whispers following him like the rustle of an angry wind. Back up the steps to the Entrance Hall, and into the first door that led to an unused room large enough to accommodate them. James' heart sunk as she sent a Prefect to fetch Professor Longbottom. He'd know the Sap almost on sight.

James wished he'd not insisted on taking the damned stuff back from Rain. That he'd thought to hide it in his dormitory for this one night. That he'd taken the hint when he couldn't find a way to conceal it under his stupid, tight-fitting shirt. For any other possible outcome but this. And in front of the entire school. In front of Odette…

'I'm disappointed,' Professor Meadows finally spoke.

She was pacing in front of the door. As if James would attempt a break-out at any moment. The glass phial shone innocently in the torchlight, perched atop a desk in the centre of the room. James had sunk into a chair. He was sitting, slouched, a mixture of nervous energy threatening to boil over, and absolutely enervated, paralysed by lethargy. He barely noticed the subtle _drip, drip_ of blood from his hip to the floor.

'Renshaw spoke tonight about making decisions. About the _right_ decisions. Did that mean anything to you? There were any of a hundred other things you could have done, paths you could have taken. But this? It makes me a little sick, James, I'll be honest. I thought it was just ignorance at first, with you. But I see now that you clearly think different rules apply to you. Is it because Harry Potter was your father? I can bet he'd never have done something like this.'

'I- I'm sorry,' James croaked.

'I'm almost certain he'd be disappointed in you, if he knew. There are better ways. It wasn't too late to turn back, until what happened tonight. But now… now I don't know if there's a road back for you.'

Merlin, was she talking about _expulsion?_ James' blood froze in his veins. His eyes darted to where the vial of Sap sat on the table between them. Professor Meadows' expression changed. As if she'd suddenly remembered something important.

'Oh, right. _That._ Erm, no. I was talking about you having the _nerve_ to come to this dance with Odette _bloody_ Mansfield! And after I tried so hard to set you and Holly up at the last duelling tournament.'

So much confusion in a single statement.

James stuttered and stammered, he gestured and gaped and huffed and finally managed to force out a strangled, 'Set us _up?_ You nearly got me killed!'

'Of course. Holly just had a few things to get off her chest. As it is,' she gestured toward the Sap. 'I guess it doesn't matter now, as you'll be expelled anyway. But it was nice to dream while it lasted. Young love…'

James wondered if the Professor hadn't had a few too many of those Butterbeers she confiscated off of Tristan. It was almost a relief when Professor Longbottom burst into the room, slamming open the door violently. At least _he_ would provide some normalcy.

'James Sirius Potter, what in the bloody _hell_ were you thinking?'

On instinct, James leapt up to his feet. He had to fight the urge to salute as Professor Longbottom strode across before him. His face was a roiling thunderhead of anger, his scowl darkening normally placid features.

'I- I- it isn't. I didn't-' he tried to tell the professor it wasn't what it looked like. Why, he didn't know, as the situation as James knew it was _exactly_ what it looked like.

'Isn't what? Didn't what? You didn't break into _my_ greenhouse to steal the Sap, despite my _specifically_ telling you not to? You're not cooking up some Merlin-only-knows how crazy plan to try and assist a known fugitive? You didn't break nearly twenty school rules, not to mention _International Wizarding Law_ by possessing a Class One restricted substance?'

James felt as if he was going to be sick. His stomach was flopping somewhere down around his ankles, and his heart was hammering up against his tonsils. He dared not even open his mouth to speak. It was beginning to look like expulsion might be the least of his worries.

'Zoe, go and get the Headmistress.'

'Yes, Professor.'

'Zoe, you are _also_ a Professor. You _are_ allowed to call me Neville.'

In this terrifying mood, James didn't blame her.

'Sorry Professor.' And she disappeared through the door with an 'Eep!'

'Why did you have to go and do this, James?' Professor Longbottom finally sighed. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, staring up at the ceiling. 'Is it your dad? He was always a little _fluid_ around the rules, per se. But even this would have been too much. Merlin, how am I going to look your father in the eye? This is not fair…'

The professor trailed off, turning away from James and over to the table upon which sat the vial of clear, pale liquid. It was traitorously calm as a mocking counterpoint to the turmoil raging inside James.

'What have you done,' Professor Longbottom sighed again, picking up the vial and gazing into its contents. 'James, you realise that when Headmistress Renshaw gets here, that she's- she'll probably…'

It was as if he couldn't bring himself to say it. James felt as if everything was coming tumbling down around him. The walls of the room should be crumbling to dust. His world was disintegrating before his very eyes, why did the castle defy him in remaining so obstinately whole?

As if to distract himself, the professor unstoppered the vial and poured a little of the liquid into his palm. James had to look away, as the end of his time at Hogwarts was about to be confirmed before his very eyes.

'What the-'

James looked up. Professor Longbottom was sniffing the liquid, holding his palm right up against his face.

'What in the name of Merlin _is_ this, James?'

As if the night hadn't provided enough of a ride for his emotions, an entirely new set swept him nearly off his feet.

'This isn't _Sanocultus_ Sap, James. So you better tell me what the _hell_ is going on James. Right. Now.'

Confused, terrified, but now feeling something that might just have been a glimmer of hope, James squeaked out the first word that came to mind.

'Prank?'

'A _prank?_ You think this is _amusing?_ And just what were you planning on doing with this, planting it on someone's person to try and get _them_ expelled?'

Too afraid to say anything more, James simply nodded. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this. If Professor Longbottom didn't murder him on the spot.

'So you think this is _funny,_ do you? There are people out there risking their _lives,_ people have _died_ for this, and you think it's a good idea to make a _joke_ of it?'

The professor was roaring now, stepping into the full swing of his tirade. James shrank back into his chair. Slowly, his mind was beginning to get back its function. There was only one reason why that vial held in the Professor's shaking hands _didn't_ hold James' one way ticket to expulsion. That reason had strawberry-blonde hair, sea-green eyes, and was about to be on the end of one heck of a James Potter tirade, when he managed to track her down.

Professor Longbottom yelled and cursed his ire for several more minutes. It was the disappointment that James found hardest to bear. The fact that Professor Longbottom now thought him so crass and childish that he'd make a joke out of this situation, when all he was trying to do was to help _solve_ it. But the punishment for his honesty had been revealed. He'd face expulsion if he owned up. So despite the tirade that left him red-faced and ashamed to step foot in the Greenhouse ever again, James bit down on his tongue and funnelled his embarrassment into his own anger and disappointment.

'Now get out of here before Renshaw arrives, or she might just expel you out of hand. She's already furious enough these days, and now I've got to upset her even more. To bed with you, too. If I see you down at that dance again I'll damn well drag you up to the dormitory myself. You can go to sleep and dream up away to get back the fifty house points I'm now taking from Gryffindor.'

James scurried from the room, thoroughly chastised. With only a day left in the year, he'd likely just cost Gryffindor any chance at the House Cup. But, considering the alternatives, he couldn't manage to be too disappointed.

Instead of his bed, James wandered the corridors aimlessly, keeping in close company with the embarrassment and the ramifications of his stupidity.

Rain had duped him with a fake Sap vial. And there was no way that _this_ time around she'd known she was doing it for his protection. He felt like an idiot for being tricked. He felt like an idiot for trusting her, and then felt bad for _not_ trusting her. She was one of his friends – wasn't she?

A growing sensation that she was keeping some increasingly important and foreboding secrets was beginning to poison the well of their friendship. The feeling of being led blindly and used was not one that sat well with him. And after everything they had been through it was eating away at James' conscience, and morphing into a frustration directed at her for putting him in such a morally confusing situation.

He stopped halfway up a stairwell – he'd barely been keeping track of where his feet were taking him – to press his face against the cool glass of a nearby window.

' _Fucking_ Greengrass,' he muttered to himself. If he'd been able to keep his stupid, ugly head together, the night might be going quite different right now. He could hear music drifting up from the courtyard in the distance. The party was continuing, uncaring that James Potter was no longer there. His little debacle was but a momentary aberration, nothing more.

Odette would be… he tried not to think just _what_ Odette would be doing. Or, more likely _who._ He'd managed to mess that up about as thoroughly as possible. Odette didn't _do_ embarrassment. And that little fiasco with Greengrass in front of all of those onlookers…. James' cheeks still grew hot when he thought about it too long.

Upwards, his footsteps took him, subconsciously following the sound of the music, where it filtered down from the opening in the clock tower above. He finally stopped when he found himself on a balcony, overlooking the courtyard and the festivities a little way off. He couldn't make out individual faces among them. Told himself he didn't want to. And if his eyes darted back twice to every showing of pale blonde hair among the crowd, he told himself it was only chance.

No, being alone was the best thing for him right now. He stepped back from the ledge and lay down on the rough wooden flooring of the balcony, pooling his cloak beneath his head as a pillow.

There was a slight chill in the air, now. A gentle breeze tousled James' hair. He scrubbed it from his eyes angrily. High up ahead, the stars were waging war with the clouds. It was a fruitless fight, with unfair odds. Everywhere the murky clouds scudded across the sky they engulfed them, washed over their feeble light and drowned them until they were lost from view entirely. But everywhere James looked, the stars still shone. And the longer he looked up into the darkness, the more seemed to appear. Rallying to an impossible fight. Standing solid and bright and hopeful until the tide of grey washed over them, and they were lost to sight.

'As long as you're not thinking of jumping.'

James sat up so quickly he knocked his head on the balustrade. He swore in a rather unbecoming fashion.

'Well, not _exactly_ the greeting I'd been hoping for.'

'Odette?'

Unless his eyes were failing. Odette Mansfield stood framed by the darkness within the clock tower. The great pendulum swung slowly back and forth behind her, merely a thickening of the blackness and a slow, lumbering _whoosh._

'You were expecting somebody else?

'I- I don't-'

She was still as made up as the moment he'd picked her up from the Slytherin common room, what seemed like days ago now. She'd climbed all this way in her dress and heels. Her hair was no longer perfect, the wind and the climb had played havoc with it. Stray strands sprung up haphazardly all over. Her cheeks were ruddy from exertion, and she had lost both gloves and one gaudy earring somewhere along the way. But, by Godric himself, if she wasn't the most beautiful thing in James' world at that moment.

'What are you- _why?'_ he stupidly stammered, his wits still in shambles from the harrowing eve.

From the dark expression flickering across her face, it had been a step backward from the vigorous swearing of earlier. 'Why am I here, and not shacked up in some broom closet with a fifth-year, you mean? Have a think about that, James. Come and get me when you figure it out; maybe then we'll talk.'

'Odette wait!' she paused in the act of turning, eyeing James over her shoulder with the hint of a look that he'd got damned sick of seeing that night: disappointment. He held out a hand toward her. 'I think I'd like you to stay.'

'Like me to stay? James Potter, you _need_ me to stay. You just took a little time to warm up to the idea.' She slid her hand into his, and together they walked out to the balcony.

Far below them, the celebrations raged on. Every so often a shout or half a word would drift up high enough for them to make it out. It seemed that no one minded their absence.

'So do you think we made enough of a show, for a first date?' Odette eventually asked him, resting her head on his shoulder. James wrapped his discarded robe across her shoulders as the night air continued to chill.

'It was a bit dramatic, huh.'

'In the same way that Greengrass kid is a _bit_ of an arse.'

Now _there_ was a sentiment James could get behind.

'So what was the plan with that potion then?' she continued. 'That's the rumour at least. It can't have been the Sap, else you'd be on your broomstick home by now. Or beheaded by an angry Renshaw. Odds were about even, by the way. So was it some kind of Love potion you were going to slip into my drink, or what?'

'Something like that,' James said idly. 'Reckon after the year we'd had, it was the only way I'd be sure you actually fancied me.'

James felt her body tense. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I reckon you've an idea. It's been a game for you, all this year, hasn't it? I might be slow, but I'm not completely stupid. The game's over now, you've won. I've won. Hell, I don't even know if anyone has won. I guess I wonder if this will _ever_ stop being just a game to you.'

Despite his instincts telling him to shut up a thousand times over, James kept his voice strong. There had been times throughout the year when he'd been through hell because of Odette. And she'd known it. He'd be damned if he was going to let that carry on just because she saw fit to bring him along to the Ball.

'I- I guess you can consider this a turning point, then.'

It wasn't an apology. But it _was_ a start.

'A turning point, really? For you? _'_

'No. Not for me,' and she looked up into his eyes, pulling him close. 'For us.'

High up above, the stars finally lost their battle to the clouds, and so it was that only the muffled light of the moon was left to illuminate two figures atop one clock tower balcony, locked in warm embrace, oblivious and uncaring towards the world around them.


	28. Streamers of Mist & Familiar Spells

_A/N: We've got a big puppy of a chapter on our hands here. Buckle up ladies and gents; there's a bit on._

* * *

'Merlin's sweaty socks!'

'Bloody _hell_.'

'I thought you were dead. Now I'm only half convinced you're _not._ '

James Potter eased himself down into the bench seat of the Gryffindor table gingerly. His body ached from top to toe. He reached out and wordlessly grabbed the nearest jug of chilled pumpkin juice, pressing it against the most painful crick in his neck.

'Where _were_ you last night?" Fred asked him around a mouthful of toast.

'Slept outside,' James mumbled down at the table.

'In the Forest, by the looks.'

'With a _werewolf_ ,' Clip added.

'Well,' Tristan smiled, with a pointed look over at the Slytherin table. 'Perhaps not too far off.'

James was strongly of the opinion that someone ought to have warned him that sleeping outside on a rough wooden balcony was a dreadful idea, no matter the company he shared it with. He'd alternated between fitful sleep and fervent shivering for hours on end. His arm had promptly gone dead from where Odette's head rested upon it. His neck and back and shoulders ached so badly from the uneven sleeping surface that he was moving like somebody ten times his age.

And _then,_ as it turned out, there was the makeup.

'Oh goodness, James. You've been attacked by a Horknuckle! You have to get to the hospital wing right away!' Cat looked aghast as she joined them at the table, her face a mask of worry.

'Well that's not usually what _I_ call her,' Tristan laughed.

'Oh, c'mon Cat, we were trying to see how long he'd go without noticing,' Fred grumbled.

James grabbed the nearest golden platter and peered in to see his reflection. He gave a queasy groan upon seeing the face staring back at him.

One side of his face – pressed into the splintered floorboards of the balcony all night – still remained a stubborn and angry red. The grain of the wood itself was just about marked into his skin. But, of greater concern, was the vibrant pink smudge that was blurred across his lips. And his cheek. And his forehead, his neck, the arm of his robes, the back of his hand. The more he looked, the more of the damned stuff he found. He scrubbed furiously, but achieved little more than painting his hands a rosy shade of pink. What did girls put _in_ this stuff?

'Don't worry Cat,' Fred assured with a sly grin. 'It's not _really_ a Horknuckle. I think he's just been attacked by Odette Mansfield.'

'Oh,' she said, crinkling her nose. 'I think I'd have preferred the Horknuckle.'

While James concerned himself with fixing his lipstick-smeared appearance, the others set about planning their day. Fred paused momentarily to "help" by tossing a glass of water in James' face.

It was the final day of term, and the busiest day on the Junior Triwizard Championship calendar. The room was abuzz with anticipation and excitement.

'The first years are duelling first up,' Tristan was explaining eagerly. 'And then the Wizard's Chess final match. Then a Charms competition. Third year finals aren't until a bit later on.'

'We'd best get down early,' Fred said, stuffing three slices of toast and a fistful of bacon into his mouth. 'Want to get some good seats.'

'Can't miss the little firsties going at it,' Tristan agreed. 'They're more a danger to themselves than to each other. It'll be brilliant.'

'Mrmm mmpfh' Fred nodded.

'I'll catch you guys up,' James said, stuffing a ruined pink napkin out of sight under the table. 'I'm going to shower and then head down… with Odette.'

The boys left him with an array of inappropriate comments and wolf-whistles, while Cat and Cassie trailed out, rolling their eyes and apparently wondering just what they'd done to land themselves in such trying company.

The moment his friends were out of sight James pushed up from the table. He stalked from the room and made for the Grand Staircase. He took the stairs two at a time, and cursed when the shifting stairways halted his path. He was heading to the Gryffindor common room in a hurry, but it wasn't to shower.

As he hastily whipped out the Invisibility Cloak from his trunk and threw it over his shoulders, he double- and triple-checked his wand was in place. He had no plans of spending the day with Odette. Or even of attending the Finals at all.

He knew one person who _would_ be. One person who's attendance was required in the duelling finals, where she would be watched over for the majority of the day. A person who had caused James a great deal of consternation, of late.

It might be James' only chance to find out just what Rain was hiding form him without fear of her interruption.

As he jogged back down the staircase under cover of the Cloak, he could already picture the door to the deepest dungeon in his mind's eye.

* * *

It was late morning by the time Odette Mansfield took up her seat at the Slytherin House table. There remained but a handful of students dotted about the room, picking at the final offerings of breakfast fare. The events of the day had already begun. And while she had many things that needed to be done, she'd not so much as countenance their occurrence without her morning bathing ritual.

Though far from her most sordid night-time rendezvous, her evening with James had left her with a resounding sense of… incompleteness? Dissatisfaction? Unfinished business, may have been the best description. She was unaccustomed to the sensation, and had spent a long hour beneath the hot water of the showers trying to scrub it away, to no avail.

She pushed the thoughts from her head. That was only going to make what she was about to do even more difficult.

'You were out of bed last night.'

'Oh, well spotted, Genie. That must have been difficult considering our beds are next to one another.'

A few friends still waited for her, as she'd instructed them.

'I heard James Potter went missing as well.' That from Ciara Beaumont across the table. Loved gossip far too much for her own good.

Recognition slowly dawned on Genie's face, and she sucked in a long, protracted, scandalised breath. 'Was he… were you…?'

'You're lucky you're gorgeous, Genie… honestly.'

Odette set about breaking her fast with uncharacteristic indelicacy. If only to suffer through less exposure of Genie's persistent, air-headed speculations on where she had been last night.

She bade the pair a prompt farewell with instruction to attend the events without her.

'I'll be coming down shortly with James,' she assured them. Ciara favoured her with a knowing smile. Genie, with a terribly-executed sly wink.

The moment the pair were gone, Odette marched from the Great Hall with purpose. She strode through the Entrance Hall and up the Grand Staircase without looking back.

She had made no plans whatsoever to meet with James. He'd certainly be out watching the competition with his own little friends.

Which was good. Odette Mansfield had a job to do.

* * *

Ron Weasley slunk across the room like the ghost of a hunted man. He'd disposed of his shoes. Socked feet padded soundlessly across thick, plush carpet. A floorboard he knew to be loose was evaded with delicate care. It was only a short distance; for the most part entirely out of sight. But any hint of a noise would doom him in a heartbeat.

He could see his prize. He reached out to grab it, tentative hands closing the space. One knuckle brushed against a fine china glass. It shifted less than an inch. More the hint of a sound than anything, barely sliding across the polished silver platter. He tensed his body in anticipation-

'Ronald _Weasley!_ Just what do you think you're doing?'

Hermione Granger stood in the doorway to the kitchen, hands on hips and an admonishing glare writ across her face. Ron slowly lowered the bottle of Firewhiskey back onto the tray from which he'd been seeking to liberate it.

'Just a small one?' he ventured.

'It's eleven in the morning.'

'Pub opens at half ten.'

And then Hermione gave him a look that she had been perfecting since she was ten years old. Equal measures stern and disapproving, with just a sprinkle of the promise of righteous fury should her will not be obeyed. When they were in school, he'd mostly thought it was just the way she looked when she had gas, or had tasted something particularly sour.

Adulthood had eventually informed him how very wrong he was.

'Ginny needs help in the bedroom. Harriet's vomiting again.'

'Ugh.' Ron stomped up off the corridor. Bloody Harry bloody Potter, off gallivanting around the world. He'd like to have a few choice words with whoever it was that decided the girls should open up this pre-Hogwarts daycare nonsense. Oh, right. Harry _bloody_ Potter, once again.

Ginny handed him the child in question, a particularly green-looking six-year-old girl with frizzy brown hair. He hurried her through the house, holding her out at arm's length until they were in the safety of the yard. She projectile-vomited with the force of a modest fire hose all through their hedge. He tipped her upside down to make sure the last dregs were out, and sent her on her way back inside.

He'd _almost_ made it to the drinks cabinet a second time before his _darling_ wife called out again.

He burped a baby, changed a nappy, de-charmed an eight-year-old who'd sneezed so violently he wouldn't stop bouncing off the walls, and cleaned up another pile of vomit (evidently Harriet _hadn't_ been finished) before he saw his next window of opportunity.

He glided through the lounge room with care, deftly sliding the cork free in silence. He was partway through pouring himself a little tipple – well, a _generous_ tipple – when a deafening roar sounded from the fireplace and he dropped both bottle and glass in fright, spilling the contents all over the cream carpet.

'Bloody _hell_.'

He strode to the source of disturbance, and paled when he saw a plain note, adorned with a few lines of spidery script, settling down onto the carpet. He picked it up with shaking hands, and swore under his breath.

He'd been waiting for the letter, in a way, for months now. The entire time that Harry had been away. He'd also been desperately hoping that Harry would have returned before this note had arrived. Bloody Harry _bloody_ Potter owed him a drink or three, in Ron's estimation.

He kissed his wife and hugged his sister. Made sure his wand was in good condition, and Disapparated from the living room with a resonating _crack!_ Underprepared and ill-informed for what he was about to do, he hoped like hell Teddy wasn't having one of his bad days.

And that wherever Harry Potter was, the Boy Who Lived was having a worse time of it than he.

* * *

'Ouch- shit- _ow!'_ Harry Potter swore, slapping at his arms, legs and torso wildly. 'Bloody ants!'

He appeared to have been knocked unconscious atop the nest of a particularly angry variety. And they were only too eager to let him know about it.

'You could have- ow! Saved me from that, you lazy bugger!' Harry yelled at the surrounding forest. He was still _mostly_ convinced someone was actually out there, watching over him.

He'd been certain he'd figured out how to spring the wards around the cave wide open. He still was, for the most part. Putting that into practise, however, was proving somewhat of a more difficult task. He spat out a thick mouthful of blood and phlegm. He wished Hermione were there; that was her forte – turning the theories into actual magic.

As it was, he felt like he was hammering a beach ball with a Bludger's bat and hoping he'd hit hard enough to pop it. Or perhaps a ball made entirely of elastic bands. For every time he battered the wards, his spell was rebounded back at him, with twice the fervour. The resulting shock would leave him jittery and vomiting for hours, at best. He rubbed his backside as one last ant made a statement for its brethren. Or knocked out cold on an ant's nest, at worst.

He fumbled around for his water skin, cleaned the blood from his mouth. The stifling, humid air had made the water tepid and dissatisfying. He briefly thought of Ron, probably tucked up on a couch somewhere at home. Enjoying his idle days.

'Reckon you'll owe me a drink or two by the time this is over,' Harry growled to nobody in particular.

Tentative steps returned him to the patch of flattened earth from which he made all of his attempts. It had become something of a ritual, this very spot. Or, if not a ritual in itself, at least a key part of it. Finding his footing among the small grooves his feet had worn into the earth, from what seemed like countless times before.

He faced the gaping darkness of the cave mouth. So simple it would be, to just walk up and enter. As if his physical presence within their bounds could help him overcome the wards that protected. More like tear him to shreds should he try dissect them from within. If the madness of Infection didn't claim him first.

He shot a Cutter at the cave mouth, more out of frustration than anything. It fizzled against the invisible barrier, but not before it severed a span of vine the length of his arm free from its parent. The damaged plant staggered drunkenly from the assault, as if confused and affronted that somebody dare. A thick globule of sap dripped down onto the peaty earth.

'So you _can_ bleed,' Harry growled. And launched into his barrage once more.

He threw every ounce of his strength behind his blows, one after the other. He hurled every spell he could imagine, he conjured raw, magical power, driven by emotion and energy more than direction and thought. He battered and swatted and stabbed, but could find no purchase from which to leverage.

He paused, breathing heavily and wiping sweat away from his brow. His wand was slicked with it. He wiped it against his trouser legs. Scrubbed at his palms, and succeeded in merely smearing the dirt and blood a little more.

When he tried again, he attempted something a little different. He reached out tentatively, questing with his magic. More sending spells to sense the presence of the wards than daring to assail them. He could feel their alien presence. Their shape, or rather lack of one.

And then he added a modicum more strength to his questing. Massaging the wards, running his senses along their edges. Though there really _were_ no edges to feel. There was no specific spell for this, more just an extended magical sensing. A feeling and learning that was too abstract to pin down with simple uttered words.

Each time a little more power. Harry slowly worked from sensory through exploratory to something firmer. Exerting pressure on different parts. Slowly building up force each time. Not a slap or a bashing, but a squeezing. Increasing the strain until he was channelling all that he could, and then releasing, starting again, questing anew for the elusive point of weakness.

The sun, high above, tracked the course of his ministrations in long minutes, and then painful hours. Sweat streamed from him as he stood there, rooted to the spot. His attention focused down to one tiny, narrow point. Midday came and went, and a blanket of thick, soupy clouds began to gather, packing the air in even more close and dense, so that breathing itself had a texture.

The air became charged with anticipation of the afternoon storm, and still Harry Potter stayed stoic and fixated. The longest period of any that he'd worked at his task. His last coherent thought was that he couldn't stop now, before the continued exertion stripped even that away from him, and it was a simple cycle of quest, squeeze and repeat.

He built up the pressure yet again, drilling down into one narrow point, focusing all of his power, building it until the air began to crackle and pop around him with charged, latent magic. A groan escaped his lips. It became a growl. His eyes, for so long squeezed shot, popped wide open.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning leapt down from the heavens, rending the earth at Harry's feet and dealing a massive concussive blow to the clearing. The ground erupted, sending Harry flying backwards through the air. He hit the soft earth and skidded, coming to rest at the bole of a massive fig tree.

The building energy from the storm had been released; the rains began to fall. Thick and heavy, washing the mud and blood free from Harry's skin. He stared at the cave once more. The vines had been seared away, burned in a flash by the force of the lightning. And at the highest point of the arch, right where the mantel stone would be, a great crack had split through the entire structure.

The wards were shattered.

And Harry could feel it now, leaking out from the blackness, washing over him in like stagnant, fetid water, leaving him feeling unclean and queasy. The stench of death rolled form the opening in waves, overpowering even the scent of the rain and rich humus of the jungle. He felt it, and was appalled. For he knew its like instantly. Had faced down hundreds over the years, though most were less complex and contrived.

The cave reeked with the palpable malevolence, not of a magical sickness – as the world suspected – but of a Curse.

And from a hidden place back within the bushes, a solitary watcher looked on with keen interest at this latest development, and tightened the grip on his spear.

* * *

It was chaos. Or, at least, something very close to chaos. That was the only way that Tristan Macmillan could begin to describe what he was witnessing, down across the grounds of Hogwarts.

There were students of all three school, bedecked in their loyalist colours. Waving countless banners and posters and flags to encourage friend or dishearten foe. There were teachers and parents, whose clothing followed no rules, and seemed all the more bright and garish for it. There were even a few shady blokes in dark overcoats bearing silver Ministry sigils, just to add a touch of sobriety to the scene.

But only a touch.

There was a complete cross section of all those who had been involved in the Tournament throughout the year. There was Archie MacDougal and Santiago Soares, fresh from competing the Tournament Proper, and there was Raya Novak, the Durmstrang Champion, fresh from winning it. Anybody who even had a friend who had decided to participate was down at Hogwarts on that sunny June day to celebrate. Hundreds of faces that Tristan had never even seen before, and likely never would again, were sprinkled among the crowds gathered to celebrate the culmination of the students' efforts.

And it was as if, by some sort of cruel joke, the designers of the stadium set up to seat them all, had deliberately made the venue about two-thirds the size it needed to be.

It was standing room only, all around the makeshift stadium. Row upon row marched up towards the sky to teetering, dizzying heights. All were packed in elbow-to-elbow, their celebrations a constant dance of jostle and counter-jostle.

There were three platforms erected lengthwise in the midst of the seating. Each one held a different event. Potions, Charms, even something involving a horde of Cornish Pixies was on display at once. Spectators were busy cheering for one match, while booing another. Leaning and clambering over one another to better see their preferred event. Shouting advice of dubious quality out at the contestants in a never-ending enfilade.

And everybody was _loving_ it. The final day of term, coupled with no threat of exams had allowed the students to shed all cares before the oncoming summer. Even the teachers were a little lax in overseeing the exuberance of celebrations. Tristan himself was caught up in cheering on a hapless first-year Ravenclaw as she swatted and leapt at the Pixies left and right. He had no idea what her victory might entail, but he and the others were loving every minute of it.

'This is _mental,'_ Fred roared over the crowd. A cry went up as one of the Pixies had swiped the Ravenclaw's wand.

'It's brilliant!' Tristan yelled, as their voices were swallowed by the burgeoning of a chant that rattled the very foundations of their seats.

The crowd erupted as the last of the blue-faced devils was locked away. Tristan and Fred danced their celebration, in among the sea of elbows and flailing arms all around them.

It wasn't until late in the morning when the celebrations died down somewhat, and the three short platforms became one long one. It signalled the commencement of the third-years duelling finals, one of the most hotly-anticipated events of the day.

And as Rain and Holly Brooks both mounted the plinth from either end, the closest thing to a hush that had been seen all day settled upon those gathered.

'Three Galleons says Rain murders her,' Fred shot out the corner of his mouth. Wary to be heard lest he invoke the ire of the ever-present Lenders.

'You're on,' Tristan grinned. He'd seen Holly fight. He'd seen her at the end of their second year, against the Atlantean. When he'd thought they were dead for sure. There would never come a day when he _didn't_ back Holly in a fight after witnessing that spectacle.

Professor Meadows limped on to the stage. She spoke a few private words with each contestant. She pulled Holly's shoulders back, slapped her in the stomach to tuck it in, and adjusted her stance slightly. The moment her feet – one real and one wooden – were off the stage, the customary barriers sprung to life, and the duel began.

Tristan could tell right away that this duel wasn't going to be like any other he'd seen that year. Or, for that matter, like any other that Holly had taken part in. Where usually her opponents set out to overwhelm her with a barrage of spells that any regular fourteen-year-old witch would be unable to dodge or deflect, Rain seemed perfectly content to simply stand there, and wait on Holly to come to her.

A long, low rumbling shook the arena. A few nervous shouts and calls went up from the onlookers. Finally, Holly made the first move. She conjured a wide jet of orange light, which Rain stepped around as if she'd been expecting it. Holly threw a wicked purple thing that bounced all around the enclosure, but each time Rain moved at the last second. The closest the spell got before eventually fizzling out was to tease a single strand of her unbound hair.

A knockback jinx was slashed aside as if it were nothing. A leg locker and an _Expelliarmus_ both rendered no effect. Rain stood still as a statue, her gaze fixed somewhere far over Holly's head. Without somebody to actually _fight,_ Holly was beginning to look a little lost.

'Told you, mate,' Fred said with a grin.

'She hasn't even _done_ anything yet.'

'Oh my goodness!' Cassie exclaimed, from somewhere under Tristan's elbow.

He looked down to see her, holding a bottle water at arm's length in alarm. The cap had popped clean off, and the contents were spilling over the sides, splashing down into a little puddle at their feet and running first down, and then _up_ the slope towards the raised dais where the two girls stood.

There were similar shouts from others in the crowd, as the rivulet flowing towards the girls began to swell in size with the hundreds of little tributaries added courtesy of those gathered.

The rumbling sound returned, growing louder and more intense, shaking the stands faintly with its fervour. Tristan watched, aghast, as the very ground on which the dais was placed started to weep, bleeding puddles and runnels of water in the small depressions, drawn up from some underground river or spring. As the flow made its way up the walls of the dais and started to lap obediently at Rain's feet, he got the sense that the _real_ fight was about to begin.

Holly shuffled her feet a little, casting spells to push back the water, trying to avoid coming into contact with it. Her steps were uncertain and stumbling. A far cry from the graceful, fluid movements she usually displayed. She looked, for want of a better word, out of her depth.

Her next spell cast in Rain's direction was met with a flick of the wrist. A lick of water leapt up from the ground to intercept it, exploding in a burst of blue sparks. Three spells in quick succession, and Rain twitched her neck. A wall of water leapt up to shield her, leaping into place and melding itself to her will. Holly looked on in frustration.

And still, the water continued to flow upward, onto the stage.

To her credit, though, Holly did not give up. Tristan watched avidly as she conjured a tongue of flame that, when in predictable contact with Rain's wall of water, produced a thick gout of steam that quickly filled the magically-confined duelling space.

On the bright sunny day, with nary a shadow in sight, it was the best Holly could manage, given the circumstances.

And by Merlin, if she didn't make the most of it.

She became a darker smudge within the billowing, roiling cloud of steam that engulfed the pair. Tristan could barely make out the shapes of the two figures within the arena, they were merely darker smudges against the billowing grey. But that was where Holly thrived. And with the shifting shadows at her back, she dove on to the offensive with reckless enthusiasm.

Tristan watched through the haze as the dark shape that was Holly darted about the enclosure, diving in and out of the thicker plumes of steam like they were the deepest shadows, casting spells and driving Rain back slowly, step by step. Everywhere she went, she trailed tattered ribbons of steam behind her like streamers. They clung to her form and gave the dance an added, ethereal beauty. Gasps and cries of alarm and delight bounced around the stadium as the spectacle unfolded.

A bright burst of magenta light sent Rain stumbling bodily backwards. The flow of water ceased, crashing down around her feet as she was knocked to a knee. The crowd gasped. Somebody yelled 'finish it!'

Holly hesitated for only a moment, but that was all the time Rain needed to regather her wits. She slammed the fist holding her wand into the ground, knocking Holly back almost the entire length of the duelling platform. Holly collapsed into a heap on the floor, dazed and struggling to push herself up onto shaky legs.

Meanwhile, Rain finally stood, raising her arms high above her head. The steam had all but evaporated; the only shadows that decorated the stage were the girls own two. The water, sloshing around ankle deep against the barriers, began to rise. Slowly at first, but with building energy. It became a solid wall of water, as tall as both girls, then twice, three times their height. Fred nudged Tristan again, sensing an end in his favour. Tristan silently willed Holly to do something, _anything._

The tower of water grew to easily five times their height. It glistened and shone a deep, crystal blue in the midday sun. It churned angrily, eagerly within. Shapes, or hints of shapes coalesced and evaporated within its midst as Tristan studied it with apprehension. With Holly till wavering slightly on the spot, Rain threw her arms forward in a grand gesture, and the seething, hungry mass at Rain's command sprung forward to Holly's demise.

With no time to react, Holly simply stared up at the giant tidal surge mutely. It engulfed the entire breadth of the dais. There was no deft dodging around this one. She threw her arms wide as the water smashed down on top of her, leaning backwards and toppling almost gracefully back to meet her own shadow.

Tristan winced. The crowd gasped. The pillar of water smashed into the platform with a force that only unbridled nature could achieve.

'Do you think she's even _alive_?' Fred asked, a little tentative.

Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know what to answer.

But as the water slowly cleared from the stage, Rain allowing it to flow back over the edge and splash down across the expanse around them, there was only one figure left upon the dais.

'What the-' Tristan began, as the crowd cried out in confusion.

From behind Rain, unfolding like the wings of night itself, came a shape. A shade, blossoming from her very own shadow. Tristan uttered every expletive he knew, as Holly – after falling _into_ her own shadow – now stepped _out_ of Rain's. She emerged as if wet, dripping tendrils of darkness around her. She reached out one, solitary hand and lay it against Rain's back, before she had any time to react.

The streamers of Night, much like Rain's water, obeyed Holly's command. They raced down her arm and _through_ Rain's body, exploding from her breast in a midnight eruption of purple and black, dissipating only reluctantly back into the daylight.

Holly's arm fell to her side. Tristan could see, even through the distance, as she gave a full-body sigh.

Rain crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and did not get up.

* * *

'I can't do it, Ron. I need Harry.'

Ron looked back over his shoulder at where Teddy Lupin had halted in his tracks, cradling his head in his hands and rocking gently back and forth on the spot. When he lifted his face to gaze pleadingly at Ron, it was the empty eyes of Dorian Alder that bored into him.

'Well, all you've got is me,' Ron growled, untangling his sleeve from a particularly thorny bramble. His movements were still uncertain and a little clumsy in his own new body. The bitter taste of Polyjuice Potion still burned at the back of his throat.

'I can't hold it anymore. There's voices now. It's going to boil over. I can feel it. Feel _something_ pulling me onwards.'

Ron swore. 'Well, you're going to have to hold it in, because here's betting that means that whatever started this is up ahead waiting for you.'

He started forward once more, listening for the sound of Teddy falling in behind him, trusting that he would. They'd cut through the Forest from Hogsmeade so as to avoid notice. They'd been trekking for over a half hour. The exertion was becoming taxing for Ron. For Teddy, in his debilitated state, the struggle was much worse.

'Take me back, Ron. _Please.'_

'You know I can't, Teddy. I have orders. _We_ have orders.'

'St Mungo's… I need help. I'm _dying,_ Ron. Can't you see?'

Ron grimaced, but didn't look back. He focused on putting one foot before the other. Do the job, and it'll be over soon. He was becoming even more envious of Harry's absence. And gaining an even bigger appreciation for what he'd fought through on all of these ventures before.

'When Harry gets back-'

'Harry's not coming back!' Teddy cried. And Ron had to wheel and clamp a hand over his mouth. They couldn't afford to alert anyone of their presence. Steelhearts were crawling all over these hills. 'He won't make it back. He's gone to try and stop this, this… whatever it is. But it won't work. It can't work. There's no Prophecy protecting him now, and this thing… It can't be stopped. It's _everywhere_ Ron. It's in everything. From the moment I wake up, until I close my eyes at night and scream through my sleep. I can feel it. Like a web. Connecting me, connecting _us._ This isn't some dark lord or evil wizard. It's a force of nature, a blight. How do you fight that Ron, tell me?'

'Like a web, you say? Well, if that's the case then there's bound to be a fat ugly spider squatting in the middle of it.'

' _NO!'_ Teddy cried, lunging towards him with hands outstretched.

Ron easily batted the attack aside, with Teddy in his weakened state.

'I- I'm sorry, Ron,' Teddy rasped, his chest heaving. 'That wasn't me. It was… it…'

It was a sure sign that their time was running out. Ron kicked himself for goading Teddy one step too far. For dallying too long so that now they were forced to race against the clock. Harry would have known how to handle it. He'd always been better with Teddy, ever since he'd been a child.

He regretted his actions even more when he heard a rustling coming through the trees off to their left. Rustling too large for any rodent. And footfalls… the regular, rhythmic footfalls of a human running. Towards them.

'Go!' Ron shouted, shoving Teddy ahead of him. A large, hulking figure in a thick brown robe materialised from between the trees. The blazing red emblem upon his breast announced his affiliation for all to see: Steelheart.

The pair barrelled through the undergrowth, away from their pursuer, who bellowed after them in a loud, guttural voice. Soon, theirs weren't the only footsteps racing through the forest. Flashes of brown and streaks of crimson closed in from either side. Ron fired a wild spell over his shoulder. There could have been three or there could have bene thirty chasing them. Among the thick saplings and shrubs of the Forest, there was no way to know for sure.

Up ahead, light began to burgeon through the tree trunks. The bright sloping green of the grassy hillside. Ron angled towards it. Teddy followed. His breathing was coming in grating gasps.

They burst out into the glaring sunlight, their pursuers hot on their heels. Somebody had sounded the alarm ahead of them, as a seething mass of humanity was screaming and milling in panic, some way up the slope, pouring out of a newly-erected stadium and sprinting in terror for the castle.

'It's him! It's Alder!' cried their nearest pursuer. Ron grabbed Teddy's arm and bolted up the hillside. If he could make it around the back of the Greenhouses, they might be able to lose themselves in the mad, terrified crowd.

A resounding _boom_ from behind them announced a shower of red sparks exploding from the tip of the Steelheart's wand. All along the edge of the forest, answering bursts followed suit. As Ron and teddy scrambled up the slope, he cast a backward glance to see what looked like an army of the inhuman beings amassing at the base of the trees. And they were all out looking for him.

* * *

With the bowels of Hogwarts castle permitting silence as his only companion, James Potter ghosted through the empty passageways of the deepest dungeons.

Beneath the embrace of the Cloak, the air was hot and close and stifling. Rich with the stale smell of an unused place. His heavy breaths stirred the fabric, and added their own recycled, stuffy undertones into the mix.

Within the tight, winding stairwell, his footsteps echoed out ahead. They betrayed his presence, something so small and innocent able to undermine the vast magical power of the Cloak.

He hesitated upon the last of the steps – but only for a moment. It had been a slow path down, despite the assistance of the Cloak. Though he knew that Rain would have to be outside, perhaps duelling at this very moment, a small part of him still half-expected to see her waiting around every corner, or stepping out of every shadow. A great rumbling had growled through the castle walls not long ago, a shuddering of the earth itself that had nearly set him to abandon his venture.

' _Lumos Maxima!'_ he threw the spell down the length of the corridor, allowing the globe of light to hover partway down, just above head height. He was here, now. Secrecy be damned.

He pulled the Cloak down, releasing his head from the confines and breathing in a lungful of the stagnant, dungeon air.

It was there, alright. The Scent. The one associated with the Infected. It was subtle – he only knew it because he was searching for it. It could almost be dismissed as just another layer of rot and mould inherent in such a dank, lonely place.

Like broken earth that had never before seen the light of day. An exhumed grave, or a cave so deep that it had never known the kiss of sunlight. The sickly sweet smell of the rotting things that thrived in those environs. The morbidly alluring smell of death.

It could have been James' mind imagining things, but he got the sense that this time, there was a touch of something else, something new. Something sharp and coppery that might just have been fear.

He took his first few tentative steps into the corridor. It had changed little since last he visited. Long, narrow, dark. Torch brackets were rusted through or entirely empty. Green algae fringed a small puddle beneath a now-silent leak. It was the closest thing to colour in the washed-out hall. The roof was low and rough and felt closer than it really was. The doors, too, were present. They marched down either wall, directly opposite one another, not so much breaking the monotony of the pale, grey stone, but adding their own brand of it with the predictable regularity of their presence.

Breaths came loud in his ears, and a little unsteady. Every sound was snatched up by the corridor, stolen and thrown back as an echo. He made his way down to the door he'd nearly gone through the last time he was down here. The heavy iron lock looked seized with rust, but it came open easily enough. He pulled hard upon it, and held his breath as the door swung open slowly. Curiously, on well-oiled hinges.

He'd been expecting it, but he still couldn't stop himself from gagging as the rotten scent washed over him. He bunched the Cloak up over his mouth and nose, but even that was not enough. The smell pervaded everything, the moment he had released it. Like it was more than a simple scent, it was a feeling, an energy, that couldn't be impaired by such mundane methods.

Again, his reflection was staring back at him from the doorway. The faintest shimmer within the portal was the only sign that anything might be amiss at all. But it was not this that had grabbed his attention. It was the cascade of thick, smoky mist that had fallen free, and was now milling about around his feet in a seething, writhing mass.

It felt so wrong, to James. Like its very existence was a blight against nature. Like it ought not to have existed within the walls of Hogwarts – something so dire should not have made it through the castle's wards. James danced around it, as it sent out tendrils, questing, in every direction. It was being fed from somewhere behind the doorway, where his magical light refused to reach. The puddle at his feet was soon become a pool. It shifted and morphed into the hint of a dozen shapes, never fully coalescing into anything. If James had to guess, he'd almost say that the thing looked _lost._

He thought he might have heard a noise, high up above within the castle. A yell or a scream. The entire school ought to have been out on the grounds. The racing of his heart picked up to another level. He couldn't afford to be interrupted now.

Movement at his feet caused James to cry out in alarm. The mist was shifting. No longer searching aimlessly, it was now running, flowing like water back up the corridor. James watched as it met the steps and began to slide up them like a giant, wispy snake. Whatever was feeding it through the doorway seemed endless, as it continued to pour out more and more of the mist.

It came again, the screaming sound. More clear this time. Not closer, perhaps, but louder. It was the scream of fear. James looked down at the thick cord of mist, it was pulsing softly, like a twisted heartbeat.

He drew his wand. 'Well, shit.'

* * *

Ron pulled Teddy along behind him, as they wove in between the Greenhouses. He had to physically restrain Teddy now, for fear of him bolting and turning himself in. He was manic, scratching at the face of Dorian Alder, mumbling incessantly to himself. His wild eyes darted in every direction. Looking, but seeing little.

They'd lost the Steelhearts in the press of the crowd. Ron had kept Teddy's head down, and they'd been mistaken for more panicked parents or teachers or some other variety of hangers-on. Merlin knew, their fear was real enough. There was such a melange of people around Hogwarts that, for once, it was working in their favour.

There was a long expanse of very open ground down to the castle gates. Or to the Forest. Or anywhere that would lead him outside of the damned Wards of Hogwarts that were currently preventing him from Disapparating the both of them the _hell_ out of that madhouse.

This hadn't been the plan – not even close. Any encounter was to have been in private. A horde of angry Steelhearts, and hundreds of mad, panicked students running around was so far outside of the job description that he didn't even know where to begin. They needed to regroup and reconsider, and fast, before either he or Teddy ended up on the pointy end of a Steelheart curse.

'Move it, kid,' Ron barked at a little red-headed figure who had strayed onto their path between Greenhouses Five and Six. 'You're in the way of adult business here.'

Strangely, she didn't squeal and flee like he'd expected, even when he gestured with his wand. Instead, she smiled a slow, knowing smile, and Ron gasped as he noticed her eyes were flecked with droplets of the brightest gold.

'But you are wrong, impostor. I _am_ the adult business.'

* * *

Every muscle ached like never before. Joints were stiff and painful. Even to breathe was a labour in itself.

Although, for Rain, there was no choice but to press on.

The magic the Brooks girl had used still resounded within her. Echoes of a sweeping darkness, bursting forth from her breast. Taking with it all of her energy, her vitality. Leaving her with a terrifying feeling of powerlessness as she felt her body crumple, spent, but unable to do anything about it.

It was an unfamiliar magic. Which scared Rain. There should be nothing in this life that was unfamiliar to her. She had lived it so many, many times.

Had she been restricted by her imagination, then? Was that the true limit of the world she had built around her, each time?

Perhaps, but it was a musing for another time. For now, she had more pressing matters at hand. Ravaged and spent though her body was, the warm embrace of impending victory beckoned, and it fuelled the smile that she gave to the impostor.

That the impostor had not been expecting her attack was obvious. His wand was held loosely at his side. Rain hurled a barrage of spells in his direction. Frozen by the fact that she appeared little more than a fourteen-year-old girl, the impostor was reluctant to use force.

That changed somewhat, after she sent a glittering spear of ice as long as her body rocketing in his direction. He dodged, and an entire wall of the Greenhouse cascaded down in shards.

Row upon row of the _Sanocultus_ plants could be seen lined up on the benches within. It was no surprise that the Impostor and the fake Alder had been slinking around here. She had not needed to wait long for their appearance.

She conjured a length of chain that was hastily redirected, lashing itself instead around a nearby tree. A deep red jet of light she didn't recognise was hastily parried, and an animal hissed escaped between her teeth. The impostor was powerful, and she could feel her strength – barely even returned – rapidly waning once more.

There were options… but she'd rather not rely upon _those_ unless it were absolutely necessary.

'Who are you?' she barked, tearing up a slab of pavement to block an incoming spell. It shattered from the force. The shards caused her to fling hands before face desperately.

'Who am _I?'_ ' he barked. 'Who the bloody hell are _you?'_

'For you, I am the end of the road. The truth to your ongoing lie.'

A vicious Cutting Curse caused the impostor to sidestep. She used the momentary upper hand to entomb the false Alder to the waist in a casing of ice. His hands, she pinned to his side so he couldn't move. Though by the way he was jabbering and tearing at his eyes, he wasn't likely to be a factor in this fight.

'Like hell you are.'

He _pushed_ with both hands, and a jet of air blasted Rain clean off of her feet. She barely regained them in time to dodge his next spell. A vicious graze wept blood down one side of her face. Her breaths were short and sharp. Her reactions were beginning to slow.

It appeared, then, that the decision had been made for her. As so many of them were.

Reluctantly, tentatively, she opened herself up. To the power. To _that_ Power. The power harvested from hundreds of magical souls across Britain, and soon, the world. It was sweet and rich and exhilaratingly chaotic all at once. It gave her strength unparalleled. It would give her that which she needed to defeat this impostor and unmask the fake Alder.

But, it came with a price. For to use it was to let _her_ in. She, who had been trapped for all those years, those lifetimes. Countless beyond comprehension. She, who had railed and rebelled and finally broken free, but did not yet know it.

As always, Rain laughed, when she thought of _her._ At the irony of her mind, always speaking in third person. As if they weren't one and the same at all.

And so, she called forth only a trickle at first. She suckled at it like a babe at the tit, taking only enough to feed her means. She pulled it through the weakness she had managed to erode into the Hogwarts wards – an impressive feat in itself. A feat made possible by a certain resonance between her own magical signature and that of Hogwarts castle. One that she had failed at acquiring fully in her first year. But she had done enough to afford her certain… allowances when it came to the castle's magics.

The fake Alder grunted, confirming her suspicious that he was Afflicted. He could feel the tug. All of the Infected would be able to feel it, as she drew on their magical reserves, and pulled them in to herself like a giant, thousand-armed parasite that stretched the length of the country.

'The hell are you doing?' the Impostor growled. A note of concern was creeping in. He cared for this false Alder. Whoever they were, they were partners in more than name.

'Finishing this,' she said, and blasted a spell at him that would have disintegrated any ordinary wizard. He deflected it into the greenhouse beside him, sending an eruption of vines and leaves flying high into the air. Vexed, Rain drew on a little more of the Power.

'Hogwarts sure has gone downhill since my time.'

'It was a mistake coming here,' Rain growled, advancing upon the pair. She flung spell after spell at him. Each one a little stronger, each time, taking in a little more Power from the font at her disposal. The fake Alder was hissing and spluttering, his own magical power – and with it his life itself, being sucked away from him. 'You've goaded me once too often. Running across the countryside with your fake appearances. Playing in a dead man's shoes, trying to trick the one who killed him out into the open.'

'Not- fake-' the Imposter snarled through gritted teeth.

But Rain knew it for a lie. She's seen the real Alder's body sent to the bottom of the ocean. She'd put it there, herself.

The laugh she gave was not in her own voice. It was deep and rich and clearly belonged to someone at least twice her age. The Impostor gasped, his gaze fixed on her face. Rain could not see it herself, but her eyes were glowing a bright, burnished gold, like a pair of suns.

And still she drew upon more of the Power.

Had she been keeping her wits about her, she would have known that now, it had become too late. That she had drunk too deep and too quickly, enticed by the allure of strength beyond imagining. The Rain as she had been known was slowly stripped away beneath the flood, piece by piece. And then all at once, until her consciousness was nothing but a fading memory.

The voice that spoke was no longer her own. And it spoke with the comfort and surety of someone who had lived a lifetime accustomed to being obeyed.

'You, I have no use for. I will find out who sent you from the false Alder. Before I tear the last of his magical strength from his body and leave you both as lifeless husks.'

All around the woman who had once been Rain, the colour was beginning to seep from the world. The greens and blues faded to tones of grey. Slowly, so that one might not notice at first. The streamer of mist that had been coiling about her person thickened and blossomed to something the size of a cathedral, encasing the three figures. The shattered fragments of Greenhouse Six that lay all about their feet remained. But they were no longer shards of simple glass. Every one of them showed a piecemeal reflection of the world around them.

A thousand tiny mirrors.

Rain made a slashing motion with her hand. The Impostor's wand flew through the air in response. He glared at her, defiant even as he faced his death.

Once-Rain raised a hand for the killing blow. It was criss-crossed in scars that had not existed a minute ago. She smiled at the terror blossoming in the Impostor's eyes as she finally surrendered herself fully to the Power.

* * *

' _Diffindo!'_ James cried.

His spell passed clean through the mist, cracking into the floor in a shower of sparks and stone chips.

' _Ventus!'_ he focused on channelling everything he had into the spell, drawing forth a great gust of wind that howled up the corridor, funnelling in towards the open door. But still, the mist flowed out and upwards, as if the wind did not exist at all.

He cursed loudly, which also had no visible effect on the flow. The smell of Death's rot still pervaded the corridor. And the source of it was now loose within the castle, heading Merlin-only-knew where.

He briefly considered following it. Perhaps he could warn somebody. Renshaw, or Professor Longbottom. But he _had_ been the one who set it free, hadn't he? Better he fix his own mistake before any ill came of it.

A finger of mist broke free from the stream and reached out tentatively towards his sneaker. He kicked at it, dissipating it for a moment, but it reformed as if drawn together by some magnetic force.

He hurried over to the door, heaving against its great weight. So simple to open, yet it showed a resistance to being closed. He holstered his wand and threw his shoulder against it, leaning with all of his might.

When the door began to bottleneck the flow of the mist, the resistance to his efforts redoubled in strength. The last few inches was like dragging the door through a thick, soupy water. Every half-second of respite he allowed himself was punished with another inch lost. It was physically pushing back against him.

At less than a finger's width to go, he heard a great, rushing _whoosh_ build from behind the door, from the depths of whatever cave or dungeon that it led to. He hadn't even the time to contemplate what it might have meant before the door came alive beneath his touch. It burst free from its hinges, throwing him bodily across the room, where he landed, cracking his head hard against the cobbled floor.

Dazed and confused, he looked up in time only to scream as a solid wall of roiling, churning silver and grey enveloped him and filled the whole corridor.

A brief sense of enervating sickness, so profound as to strip even his will to live, and then nothing.

* * *

It had gotten to the point where Harry Potter thought he would never see this day. He was staring at the cave, his chest heaving, feeling the waves of Dark magic lapping against him, no longer bound and concealed by any form of ward.

He ran a hand across his forehead. Succeeded only in smearing mud into the sheen of sweat and grime already there. He wiped his palms on the ruined singlet that hung loosely from his emaciated frame. Drew his wand from his pocket. Somehow, it continued to resist the creeping mould and decay that pervaded the jungle.

Curse-breaking had never been his strength. Beyond the basics, he knew very little. The Ministry had specialists for that. Hermione would have known more. Though the thought of having to drag anybody else through this living nightmare of the past few months was reprehensible at best.

A little sliver of worry snaked in to the back of his mind, and spoke the dissenting question of: _what if the hard part hasn't even begun?_

But he was Harry Potter. He'd be damned if he left a job half-finished. And he'd be damned again if he walked away from something as sinister and malevolent as this Curse. Especially if he'd unwittingly had a hand in bringing it into the world.

Most days he tried hard not to think about that. It was difficult though, when that exact sentiment was the reason he was still in this stinking, humid hell-hole.

'Today, that ends,' he growled to the trees and vines around him. He'd miss them, in a way, when he left. They'd been great listeners. Argued back a lot less than Ginny ever did. Only laughed at him occasionally, in that ghostly shushing way, high up in their leaves.

He was no Curse-breaker, but he _was_ Harry Potter. And though he didn't know where to start when it came to something like this, there was always one spell that had yet to fail him. It was with a determined smile that he lowered his wand.

' _Expelliarmus!'_

His voice thundered through the trees for miles around.

* * *

From the shadow of the trees, the Watcher looked on with avid interest.

 _Protect._

He saw as the figure raised his wand. Flinched at the raw power emanating from his voice as the spell was cast.

 _Protect._

As the jet of the spell poured into the cave and did not stop, the Watcher hefted his spear. The silver-blue light streamed forth. And in response, a slow, creeping blackness began to bleed out from the depths of the cave.

 _Protect._

A wordless scream tore free from the throat of the figure in the clearing. Slowly, a light began to burgeon within the cave before him. Now was the time.

'Protect!' screamed the Watcher, though it was in a language known only to the handful of families in his tribe.

He sprinted in to the clearing, his spear held high and true. His hands did not shake nor did his footsteps waver.

And as the light burst forth from the cave – a rich, golden light it was – he threw himself in front of the other figure, shielding him from the blow.

 _Protect._

This man had come to cleanse the golden-eyed goddess of the Watcher's people. To cleanse the desecration that had been set upon her. To sanctify this clearing, this most holy place of their tribe. To undo what had been placed here over a year ago.

But the Watcher knew the goddess. As the tribe's shaman, he alone was most intimate with her ways. She was spiteful and bitter. A child, in many ways. She would not let this heresy go unpunished. Lifeblood was the price she would exact.

And after all that he had done for their tribe, the Watcher would not let it be the life of their saviour that was claimed in payment. So he leapt before her retaliatory blow, feeling her power – for the first time in so long, her _cleansed_ power – wash over him, stripping his mind from his body.

Tears of joy streamed down his face in his final moments, as he gave his life to protect this unknown hero, this Chosen One.

* * *

Ron Weasley snarled as the red-headed child approached him. The power rolling off of her in waves was palpable and terrifying. The way the world seemed torn, stuck halfway between Hogwarts and some blasted wasteland of smoke and shattered glass chilled him to the core.

'What the bloody hell _are_ you?' he asked again.

She couldn't have been much older than his Rose. Hell, in the right light that reddish hair could almost be mistaken for a Weasley.

And yet here she was, wreathed in a ghostly mist, moments away from doing who-knew-what to one of the Ministry's best ex-Aurors.

She spoke again, in that resonating voice that did not belong to a girl her age. 'I am the spirit of the lost and forgotten. The spurned and unloved. The ghost you look through and do not see. And in this life, like _every_ life, you will grow to worship my real name. The name of-'

Though Ron did not know it, it was the second time that day that Rain's body collapsed, lifeless to the ground, and was still.

'Harry Potter you bloody _legend._ ' It was looking like perhaps it was Ron who owed the drinks, after all.

He turned his back on the unmoving body and scooped up his wand, dashing over to where Teddy had been frozen in place. He shattered the ice and held Teddy up as he collapsed forwards.

'Ron…' Teddy gasped through ragged breaths. The clawing had stopped. No more mumbling to himself. 'I- I'm _free._ I'm me again.'

That was all the energy Teddy had to give, as his eyes slid closed and he slumped into Ron's arms.

Painfully aware that their little spat couldn't _not_ have brought attention upon them, Ron hoisted Teddy across his shoulders and made for the castle gates without so much as a backwards glance.

* * *

Footsteps crunched across broken glass, as one figure watched two fleeing the scene of destruction. No attempt was made to try and stop them. The greater prize lay just ahead among the gravelled path and broken shards, with red-gold hair fanned out about her like shining blood.

'Well, isn't this a most serendipitous encounter,' the figure smiled.

The body was thrown roughly across shoulders, and a slow Disillusionment charm trickled down, hiding the both of them as the figure – now somewhat encumbered – made its way from the scene before any of a number of interested parties should come across it.

* * *

Odette Mansfield glided softly across the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor common room. Damned nosey Fat Lady and her damned probing questions. Thankfully, as it turned out, her reputation had preceded her, and she'd managed to explain away her appearance as a planned rendezvous of the kind best-enacted when nobody else was in the dormitories to see it.

The disapproval had been palpable, but in the end, she'd had the password. She'd been allowed to enter.

She padded up the steps to the third-year boys room, ignoring the surrounds. This wasn't her first trip to these environs. The best lies worked because they held an element of the truth within them.

A loud commotion was drifting up from the grounds below – suddenly much more intense than it had been. Earlier, an earthquake had shuddered the walls of the castle. Merlin only knew what they were getting up to with those duels. As long as it kept Potter and his cohort entertained for the next few minutes, she couldn't care less.

She found James' bed easily enough. Her heart began to flutter as she traced a finger across the top of his trunk, but she stamped it out. She opened the lid and began to riffle through the contents, pausing only to screw up her nose at the amount of dirty socks the boy had scattered throughout all of it.

Odette Mansfield did not do embarrassment. She would be the name on everybody's lips on her terms, and her terms only. She'd wear the whispered barbs thrown behind her back because they were jealous. She would not – _could_ not – countenance them laughing at her. But more than embarrassment, one thing Odette Mansfield did not do was heartbreak.

At least, not when it was her own.

Perhaps it was because she had spent the best part of a year thinking up ways to torment him. Learning his hopes and fears, thinking about him on more days than not, that Odette was now staring into the face of an unfamiliar beast indeed.

Though she did not know the specifics of what her feelings following their encounter last night quite meant, she at least knew the general sentiment behind them, as unaccustomed to it as she was.

She'd not allow herself to have her heart broken, not even by James _bloody_ Potter.

A tiny voice inside her head, one that she had to scream to ignore, asked whether it might not already be too late.

She slammed the lid shut on his trunk with a little more force than was necessary. If there was something, _anything_ to hint at just what he and that Rain girl had been getting up to behind her back, then by Merlin she'd find it.

It was only fair, after all. She was on the brink of investing a lot of emotional capital into this venture. She felt she was allowed her period of due diligence.

Once, Odette might be able to pass off as coincidence, but two, three times. Not bloody likely. Not with the way he looked at her, like his whole world had frozen, and he was about to fall into her gaze. Like he _needed_ her, for support, just to stand, to exist. Like they were two halves of a whole.

He'd never looked at _her_ that way.

Odette's eyes fell upon James' pillow, and she let out an audible hiss. There, nestled among the tassels, almost out of sight but not _quite_ was a battered little, leather-bound book.

Her heart set to racing. All of a sudden, it was too late. There was no going back now. She'd seen _something._ She couldn't walk away and continue on, not knowing just _what_ it was that she'd seen.

She lunged for the book, and flicked it open to the first page, exhilarated, terrified and oh, so nervous all at once.

 _James Potter,_

 _I gift this diary unto you as a sign of my faith, though I fear you may think lesser of me for it. It is an answer to every question asked in private moments. An explanation for all that I have done, and why. There is nothing I will hide from you now, just as I promised so many times before. I ask only one thing in return; that you not think me a monster for what I have done, and that we might still, after all of this, move forward, hand in hand. Together._

 _Rain_

Reading it made bitter bile rise in her throat. She cursed that ginger wench with every name beneath the sun. In her hands, the book trembled. A blind rage was rising up within her. She did not need to read any more. She had her answers.

The only question remained was whether James had read it or not. And did it matter if he had? It certainly didn't undo the things that had clearly already happened between them.

She strode over to the nearest window and threw it open. Without so much as a thought, she tossed the book out, and watched with satisfaction as it fell gracelessly through the air, down towards the Black Lake below.


	29. Heated Water & A Shining Crystal

_Fever Broken! Country-wide Infection Cured_

 _The_ Daily Prophet _is proud to be the first to report the rising of a bright new sun this morning, with word coming in across the country that the Maleficent Malady known only as the Infection has, as of last night, been cured._

 _Sources within the Ministry of Magic are claiming credit for the feat, citing the dedicated work of the staff at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries as a key catalyst in allowing them to succeed. When pressed for details, they declined to comment, but it should be safe to say that the Minister has earned himself that coveted re-election with this, the most recent – and arguably most impressive – feather in his cap…_

There were six pages of it. Almost half of the entire paper was taken up with the story of the demise of the Infection and the saving of the hundreds of Infected all across the country.

'Sure do like to heap it on the Ministry,' Fred said, somewhat distractedly, as he was busy levitating a whole fried egg into his mouth.

'Mmm,' James mumbled without looking up. 'And not a mention of the Professor and all the _Sanocultus_ Sap he provided – I bet that was what _really_ cured it.'

' _I_ don't think it was the Ministry at all,' Cat added with surety. She was braiding a length of her hair which, when she sat down, very nearly reached all the way to the floor. 'I think it was-'

'The Vampires?' Cassie suggested, at the same time Fred said 'the Merfolk,' and Tristan guessed 'the Secret International Confederation of Cure-all Hit-Wizards.'

Cat stuck out her tongue at the lot of them.

Although, James thought, there may have been some truth to her words. Perhaps he'd ask his dad what had _really_ happened. He might have some sort of an idea.

As it was, James couldn't wait to get out of the castle and home to his bed. He felt like he had been to hell and back – and had the aches to prove it. He'd once seen a curious bunch of muggles in a store staring avidly at some bizarre contraptions, within which their clothes were spinning around and around. James was currently feeling like he'd just spent the best part of the past night inside of one of the strange Muggle-clothes-spinners.

He'd only regained consciousness a little over an hour prior, and staggered up the steps and out of that hellish dungeon to join his friends for breakfast. He _still_ hadn't had that shower.

He couldn't begin to guess what had happened to him. He'd thought for a while he might have been Infected – he certainly felt sore enough for it – and so it had been with immense relief that he snagged a copy of the _Prophet_ as he downed his morning pumpkin juice.

'Anyone seen Rain?' he croaked. Though he wanted nothing less than to deal with confronting her now, he had to find out for sure just what the hell that mist had been.

'Nope,' Tristan replied.

'She was rushed to Madam Petheridge's tent after her duel with Holly,' Cassie told him. 'She might have been taken to St Mungo's. I- I thought she might have been dead.'

'Don't think she likes catching the Hogwarts Express home,' Fred mused. 'Not a year gone by she hasn't finished in that damn place. Guess it would be a shame to break tradition now.'

'What was that spell that Holly used?' Tristan asked the group. 'It looked _nasty.'_

'Wait a second,' James interrupted. 'Holly _won?_ ' Not the outcome he'd have picked, no matter the fanciful stories about her prowess.

'You weren't there?' Cassie asked pointedly.

James hid his uttered curse by taking a long draught from his goblet, internally kicking himself. He couldn't tell them about where he _had_ been without divulging his suspicions about Rain, their dealings with the stolen Sap, and the fact that he had been within a breath of expulsion. He was too deep in to back out now.

'I was, er…'

'He was with Odette,' Tristan said with a sly smile. 'They probably had _other things_ to keep their eyes – and hands – on.'

James nodded, thankful for the save. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Odette that morning yet, either.

The group launched into a blow-by-blow recounting of the duel between the two girls; Rain's awe-inspiring command of everything water, and Holly's quick-thinking use of the makeshift shadows. There was a certain reverence in the way the boys, at least, talked about how Holly moved upon the dais.

James had to hide his alarm in his pumpkin juice once more as they calmly informed him of _Dorian Alder's_ appearance. He nodded as they each told of their experience within the crushing panic that ensued as hundreds of people tried to flee a too-small stadium, nearly trampling each other half to death in their flight to get inside the castle.

Dorian Alder had appeared at Hogwarts the same day the Infection was cured. The day _after_ he found out that Rain had stolen the Sap from him. The Ministry wasn't likely to let a known victim-turned-fugitive take credit for such a feat as curing the Infection.

Did that then mean that Rain had managed to get the Sap to Alder when he appeared? Had she _predicted_ James' distrust, and subsequent absence from the proceedings and so taken matters into her own hands? Their plan, after all, had been to get the Sap to Alder. She must have done it without him.

He felt like an idiot; he'd likely just betrayed Rain's trust, and almost ruined their plan. He owed her an apology. All of this thinking and unravelling of events was making his head hurt even worse. He was glad when the group finally lapsed into silence, and he could go back to flicking through the _Prophet_ in peace.

Way down the back, almost entirely swamped by the news of the Ministry's great work in defeating the Infection, was another article that piqued his interest.

 _End in Sight? Renshaw's Reign Questioned after Triwiz Fiasco_

 _The Junior Triwizard Championship yesterday ended without resolution, and in utter shambles yesterday, after known Ministry fugitive Dorian Alder breached Hogwarts security measures and was seen within the school grounds._

 _The tournament – touted as the brainchild of one Galatea Renshaw – was interrupted before the third-year duelling finals yesterday. A match between a Hogwarts and Durmstrang competitor that would have decided the overall tournament victor. Instead, participants and spectators alike were sent scrambling for safety after the deranged convict was seen approaching the gathered crowd._

" _It was absolute chaos, I was scared for my life" one Beauxbatons student was quoted as saying._

" _I take full responsibility for the breach of security. No further comment," was all that could be gleaned from a harried headmistress following the incident._

 _Questions surround just how much responsibility she is willing to take, after the scrupulous journalists of the_ Prophet _uncovered reports of a Beauxbatons student seriously injured in the crush. French Ministry officials have expressed a desire to press criminal charges of wilful negligence against the beleaguered head._

 _With uncertainty already looming around her role in the attack on the Beauxbatons Abraxan horses on Hogwarts grounds, things are looking dire for the once-loved Headmistress._

 _Previously viewed as a Ministry darling, the relationship appears to have soured following the mysterious circumstances around the transmission of command of the Steelhearts from Miss Renshaw to the Ministry. It remains to be seen just how far that relationship has fallen, and whether the Ministry will protect the Headmistress from any potential calls for extradition._

A hand clamped down firmly on James' shoulder.

'We should be careful not to believe everything we read in the paper, Mister Potter.'

Had James the energy, he'd have jumped a good foot clear of his seat. As it was, his feeble heart seemed to merely cease beating for a few seconds.

'Headmistress, I wasn't-' he flipped the page of the _Prophet_ shut as hastily as he could.

'The written word is a dead thing, Mister Potter. It holds no truth. It leaves space immeasurable in the things it cannot say, and so leaves the reader grasping for any conclusion that best suits their own, narrow view of the world.

'To really know truth, you must speak to someone. Hear their voice. Look into their eyes and know what they say is true. Or not. Only then will you find the answers you seek.'

'Er, sure.' James agreed.

'A word. My office. Immediately.'

James didn't need telling twice. His friends – some help they were – watched on with morbid curiosity as the Headmistress steered him from the Great Hall with her hand remaining firmly on his shoulder. A good helping of speculative whispering fired up among the students in his wake.

They strode through the castle in silence. The corridors were largely devoid of life. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Their footsteps found no company. At this hour, those who were not eating below, were making frantic, last-minute check-ups to ensure that they had not forgotten a spellbook or trinket or favourite sock.

Inside Renshaw's office mirrored the lack of life without. Her décor – ever on the sparse side – seemed almost stark, now. Few furnishings, almost militaristic in their severe practicality. Not a hint of personal effect – no, that was a lie. A single photograph of a young child frolicking among a field of daises sat upon her desk. Though the tilted, almond eyes were – for once – not turned upon him in anger, James knew they could only belong to one Wren Sayre. Renshaw's favourite evil niece. He frowned at the photo for good measure.

'I find myself hardly surprised that you were absent from proceedings yesterday, Mister Potter.'

She gestured for him to sit in the single chair facing her bare, mahogany desk. The chair was rigid and straight-backed. The pillow more of a suggestion, than an actual thing. It was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. James couldn't help but squirm.

'I was with Odette.' He was surprised at how easily the lie came.

'Your voice says truth, but your eyes, James… Your eyes betray the lie.'

James swallowed nervously. The Headmistress drew her wand, and James shrunk back in the chair. His eyes darted left and right for an escape, but a benevolent smile crossed Renshaw's face.

'Fear not, James. I seek only to help. You have the stench of the Infection pouring from you. You reek of it.'

James surreptitiously tried to sniff beneath his armpit. Perhaps he _should_ have had that shower, after all…

'Not something as mundane as that,' Renshaw smiled. 'I speak of a smell, but in this case it is more of a magical misalignment, shall we say.'

She waved her wand in a complex series of patterns and shapes in the air before him, all the while muttering incessantly under her breath. James caught only one word in six, and was soon lost entirely in the complexity of the spell. He had been focusing on it so intently that he didn't realise the ache slowly being drained from his body.

'So it _is_ true,' Renshaw breathed, once she had finished.

'Sorry Headmistress, but _what_ is true?'

'That the Infection has, in fact, been cured. It seems that you somehow managed to spend some time among the ranks of the Infected, Mister Potter. So I think it might be time you told me just what you _were_ up to yesterday.'

She gestured for his hand, and took it in both of her own. As she started massaging James' palm a growing warmth seemed to spread from her fingers, radiating out from his hand and filling his entire body with a contented heat, washing away even the memory of the aches that had once afflicted it.

His eyelids grew somewhat heavy, and it was in something of a droll monotone that he recounted the true events of the day past. But he didn't stop there, stretching his story all the way back to the inception of his plan together with Rain. He was just so _comfortable._ He really felt that he could trust Renshaw. More than that, he _knew_ he could. He finished his story with the theory of Rain handing the Sap to Alder as the true reason the Infection was cured, and his distress about betraying her trust.

'Do not fear that you have done wrong in this, James. I feel that Miss Rain's involvement in the affair was somewhat less… benign that you are suggesting. Though I find myself with more pressing matters to hand than to query her about it, at present.'

James nodded mutely. He felt a wave of disappointment as Renshaw released his hand from her own. She smiled warmly at him. He wondered how long she had possessed such dark rings beneath her eyes.

'I also cannot help but find it both disappointing, and also completely unsurprising, that you sought to take matters into your own hands in this. Trust, Mister Potter, can take a lifetime to build, and only a second to destroy. I think you may have eroded some of the confidence Professor Longbottom had placed in you. I will see to it that when you return to Hogwarts next year, that a suitable punishment awaits you.

'I cannot help but to see a great deal of your father within you, James.'

Despite the preceding dressing-down, James couldn't help but swell with pride upon hearing those words. Renshaw noticed, and shook her head gently.

'Do not be so eager to fill those shoes, James. It can be a curse as much as it is a blessing. We live in different times to your father, a different world. There is no Dark Lord that you are fated to slay. Neither you, nor I, nor even your father, any longer, are any kind of Chosen One.

'Those times were meant for the storybook. Tales of good and evil divided so clear and so sharp that you could cut yourself on it. Those times are not for you and I. No, we face a different kind of evil. Not from the storybooks, but from real life. An evil not painted on a canvas in black and white, but in strokes of grey, sitting atop the surface of water, so that even the barest of disturbances can change the tones so much that you find yourself staring back from the other side.

'Our victory, or failure, is not prophesied nor foretold. We are but pieces set out upon the board. Moving as if we had free will – and perhaps believing as such. But remember, James, what even the most novice player can tell you. That you have to sacrifice a few pawns in order to get to the King.'

The dismissal was clear in the Headmistress' voice. They shared a long, sombre look before James turned to leave. The ache in his muscles had disappeared, but a slight dizziness lingered in his head. He brushed it off as he ascended to the Gryffindor common room, very much prepared for that long-awaited shower.

On the way he paused for a moment, thinking to seek out Odette. He'd missed her at breakfast. But, knowing her, if she wanted him to have seen her, he'd have seen her. He decided he'd best not be pushy. Perhaps he'd see her on the train. Either way, he was glad the way they left things, out on the balcony. For once, when it came to Odette Mansfield, James Potter was adamant he knew exactly where he stood.

Finally in the shower, James let the hot water wash over him, cleaning away not only the sweat and grime of the past two days, but everything else that had come with them. He let himself gasp and shudder, and felt the pinpricks of cold sweat even beneath the hot water at the thought of what had almost been. What he'd almost become.

Renshaw had been right, of course. There was no prophecy protecting him. And yet here he was again, throwing himself into the centre of another perilous situation. Perhaps he ought to stop acting like his father. Perhaps he'd never really be as great as Harry Potter. The thought stung more than he cared to admit. Although, when nobody else around you seemed ready, or even willing to act, perhaps it didn't take a prophecy to make a hero. Perhaps all it needed was somebody to walk first into the breach.

And where did that put things with Rain? Renshaw had been vague on her involvement in all of this. Perhaps she knew nothing. Perhaps she knew it all. James wouldn't be surprised, either way. He'd saved Rain's life twice, in their first two years together at Hogwarts. Had he been that poor of a judge of character? Or was she simply a Queen of deceit. A more likely explanation was that he had just been looking for a way to make a name for himself. A path which led to the glory like his father had known.

Strokes of grey. Had he now gone from saving Rain, to staring across a battlefield at her? He recalled the hatred he'd felt upon seeing the suffering of the Infected in Diagon Alley. The vengeance he'd sworn on the one who did it. The recklessness with which he'd thrown himself into the plan to smuggle the Sap to Alder – anything to help.

But no, he couldn't imagine a world in which Rain was evil. Or, at least, whatever Renshaw's version of real-life evil could be. There must have been some reasonable explanation for what she'd done, or hadn't. Some way that their shades of grey weren't so different after all.

But he found himself unable to know her mind. For one to understand another's motives, all they could do was put themselves in the other's shoes. To think what could have happened to make them act in such a way. What might have driven them to this action, or that decision? But, if one did not truly know the subject, then all was merely guessing, and so James could not say for sure what had passed through the mind behind those sea-green eyes. Merlin, but he'd have given anything for an insight, an explanation, _anything_.

Although… perhaps there _was_ one way to get some answers.

A shower that had dragged on for nearly an hour was finished in a heartbeat, and James Potter rushed out to rummage among his belongings.

The end of the year at Hogwarts was a time of rituals among the students. Of going through a series of actions the same way they had done so the year before, and the one before that. Actions that, in their repetition, held all the more value, or none at all, because of it. Depending on one's view of the world.

There were the rituals that were as old as Hogwarts herself – friends exchanging lingering hugs, lovers sharing kisses or maybe more. Sudden upwellings of affection meant to tide each other over until next they met. As if that was how the system worked. But, in their very participating in the act, and the extra modicum of comfort and warmth that it engendered, perhaps each and every one of them were showing it in action, after all.

Then there were the rituals not so tempered by time. Those a little newer, and thus more volatile. Without generations of tradition by which to measure their success, they were like an awkward teenager, still finding their way. And so, when, high up in a forgotten tower, a little black book with an embossed, cursive 'L' was refused to be handed over, wands were drawn, and it was taken by force. And if the new owners would never manage to scrub off that single drop of blood upon the cover, why that may add a new layer to the tradition. And one might argue it a fitting one, as blood so often follows gold.

And finally, there were those which were not ritual at all, but had the feeling of such. For every tradition must start from somewhere. So it was for the brown-haired boy who stood alone in a certain Gryffindor boys' dormitory, gazing out the window over the Black Lake, and turning over in his hands again and again a gold and sapphire amulet that was hot to the touch. He watched the waves lap at the shore as if standing vigil, and periodically stopped to stare into the depths of the crystal with a yearning gaze. Searching for answers.

None were forthcoming.

And far below, trapped among the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff, and just above the high tide mark of the Lake, sat a battered, leather-bound little diary which held them all.

* * *

 _A/N: And that's about it for another installment, ladies and gentlemen. I hope this book has answered a few of your questions. But, more importantly, I hope it has left you with many, many more._

 _As always, I greatly appreciate your continued support for the story, and love to hear what you think of it._

 _My highly advanced planning system of never being more than 1 chapter ahead means that I have no idea whatsoever as to what the next title in the series shall be. Nor, for that matter, much of what will be in it. Yet. If you'd like to stay tuned, make sure to drop a favourite/follow on my author page/profile thing so you'll get notified when I do release chapter 1 of book number 4. I expect there will be a couple weeks' brief hiatus while the planning and plotting occurs._

 _J_


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